Where the Story Ends
by PermanentNerd
Summary: AU: Watson is a female doctor returning from the battlefield hospitals, injured and alone. When sent back to London to recover she meets Holmes, who is possibly the most infuriating & insufferable detective to cross the Earth. Based on Doyle's works
1. Welcome to London

**Author's Note: I had such a urge of inspiration to write this…and I'm pleased with the plot that I have in my head! This is a romance story, but NO slash. Because you see…I made Watson a female. Now, if you notice, there is a strong friendship between the unbreakable duo of Holmes and Watson, so their characters won't but much different. I promise this will not be a cliché female!watson story and all the characters will be in here! It starts from the very beginning, and goes off till I decide to end it. This one will be long, but I'm sure it will turn out just fine. I apologize in advance if you find any typos and reviews are loved! **

**I do not own Sherlock Holmes. It all belongs to the wonderful mind of Arthur Doyle. **

I had no intention of ever returning to London, nor had I been pleased with the news back at the military base that I was being sent "home" due to my unfortunate incident. Prior, the year had been 1878, I earning my medical degree from the University of London—a much grueling task I must add—when I had "entered the battlefield". Women were absolutely forbidden from working in such a dismal career, but with my deceased brother's sources, I had managed to force my way to schooling. Needless to say, my future of settling down and marrying a nice man had vanished from the books. I was wild, a tarnished name to any man's reputation. Not that I cared for the bloodiest moment. But continuing from earlier, I had been shipped off to work as a surgeon's assistant after graduating and it was nauseating—my first deaths in my career. They had told us that every doctor killed a patient, but they had never told me that I would have to deal with hundreds every _day_. But then again, I being a female, was enough to say I wasn't _supposed_ to be medically able and at war nonetheless! Yet I knew all that was needed to…

Battlefield is an ugly thing.

There are no winners in such a combat, no prizes, no pride. For the time I spent in the hospital wing, I had aged over a thousand years, watching young men die or bleed themselves to death. Sometimes only parts of them came through the door, their bodies so covered with burns and blood that I regarded them as a fragile glass—one touch and they'd break. After weeks, my heart had reached an unbearable state; the sight of dead bodies seeming more like dead flies on the windowsills.

So, to this day, I don't know whether I am relived about getting shot.

Rests assure I am not a martyr of any sort. The memory was still quite vivid in head seeing as I have only just recovered and departed. I had been rushing out to the well outside to retrieve some water for the surgeon when the large _crack_ suddenly sounded through the empty courtyard. When one says their life flashed before their eyes, I'd like to say they are all dirty liars. I saw nothing but white, searing pain and I _was _dying. And it was only till my eyes wandered to the blossoming red stain on my shoulder and my body crashing to the ground that I realized what it was—a Jezail bullet. And that crack had been my bone.

When I finally did awake, I wished I had not. The strong light burned my eyes, and I could feel my pupils dilating from being closed for so long. Agony swept through my shoulder and my leg, the slightest movement causing a wave of raw pain to hit me. I remember shutting my eyes tightly, fearing for the worse—the removal of my limbs. I knew the chances of survival; I had done the procedure numerous times. If the patient didn't die during the surgery, the infection was bound to get them. I had cracked an eye open and turned to look at my limbs, feeling my eyes watering and let out a sigh of relief to see them all there. There had been an old man staring down at me, his strong green eyes having no emotion. "Miss Joanna Watson, I presume? You're bloody well lucky that theMurray fellowmanaged to save your life. We were sure you were going to die." The old doctor shrugged, his professionalism never slipping. I loathed him for it, but kept my mouth clamped shut. I was in too much pain to respond anyways. The doctor continued, fishing a cigarette from his coat, lighting it and then placing it to his lips. I thought he wasn't going to say anything, but then he finally opened his mouth, his voice gentle, perhaps even…remorseful. "I will never understand how a woman so young got stuck in a hell-hole like this."

I never quite understood myself.

After the doctors saw that I was well enough to be moved, they shipped me off to a much safer camp to heal. At first, I was sure that I would never be able to walk again; but I had never expected to see the soft moonlight ever again either. Recovery was slow and aggravating but soon, I was able to walk with a cane. I saw the way men stared at me in disgust at the hospital, and I knew what they were all thinking: A woman who has destroyed her future for a vain effort. I couldn't help but feel saddened. But where was I to go if I were to leave? I never had the choice. The general had sent me on the next train to London to meet up with a high ranking inspector, which is where this story comes to the present.

My full name is Joanna Watson. I am 23 years of age, a doctor that receives no respect, single and now officially homeless. And as I write this, while staring out the train's window, I am nervous. There was no smoke from artillery in the sky, and everything smelled clean, instead of metallic and dirt. The pen is twiddling in my fingers at a frantic pace and I do believe I am the only one without a companion. For a second, I have no idea how to react. Back at Afghan, my only leisure time was dragging the bodies to the back or reading softly to the men—and if I was lucky and met a charming fellow who was healthy enough to sit up, I'd actually play cards. Gambling was no woman's trade….But I must admit; I am bloody well good at it.

I silently reached for my purse, wincing as a sharp pain ripped through my shoulder at the effort; it was too early to act normal. I ignored it pointedly, until I managed to pull the small book from the bag that was curled lightly in my grasp. The cover of the book was etched with dried blood and a sad smile spread across my lips. I was never going back there. I was….home? The rest of the way to London was exhausting, and I fell asleep numerous times. Every time the train jerked to a stop, I would startle myself awake thinking they were bullets, flinching at the twinge of my shoulder and leg. We were about an hour's away from London, when I looked up from my dreary sleep and felt a sharp breath pass through my body. From the window, I could see my reflection staring back at me. I was well fit, due to my exercise running around the hospital, and I do admit…I was beautiful. Not gorgeous like a proper English woman…but enough. My long brown hair was down, the slight waves at the tips causing my thin face to allow my pale complexion to be hidden. My hazel eyes were nothing special, and they reminded me of the mud back at the battlefield. I was all brown, brown, brown. The only thing that stood out was my dark gray dress, which I had borrowed from an old nurse back at Afghan. She had insisted in me taking it—better than the blood stained gown. So deep in my thoughts I was that I hadn't even noticed the car had begun moving again.

About an hour and a half, I had finally arrived.

Stiffly reaching for my small bag of luggage with one hand, and my cane with the other, I limped out trying to ignore the stares. I was already out of breath by the time I fully off the train and leaned against the wall for support. My luggage dropped with a thump against the concrete flooring, my thin silver cane held weakly. Taking a deep breath, I heard my name being called from what seemed yards away.

"Miss Watson?" The voice was unsure, belonging to man.

I looked up and narrowed my eyes for a better look—oh yes; I was expecting an inspector to escort me to housing for the night. When my hazel eyes found the source of the voice, it took all self control to hold in a small laugh. He reminded me vaguely of a ferret—short, slightly stout, and beady eyes. He came running up to me and nodded, as if it were a sign he could approach closer.

"Inspector," He breathed, outstretching his hand. "Lestrade."

I smiled thinly, my fingers resting against his hand before drawing back. Usually, woman gave a small bow but with my leg, it would mean me passing out from the pain. "Ah, yes….well thank you Inspector. I assume I haven't cost you too much trouble?" I said with excruciating politeness. I was back in London. Swear words or rudeness could get me ridiculed more than I had to deal with already.

"Hmph. Could be worse. Where's your luggage?" The man asked, looking at her single bag.

I smiled halfheartedly, nodding. "You don't take much to war, Inspector."

He said nothing after that.

The ferret-faced inspector took me to a cab, helping me into the seat; I was pleased that I had contained my wince. My limbs were aching terrible once more and I needed to sleep soon. We had barely been driving for over five minutes, when the man cleared his throat once more. "Miss Watson," he began and I turned to look at him—and I could tell he was trying not to stare at the resting against the cab's door. "I am sure you must be utterly exhausted from your travels. But I do need to stop at someone's home for a brief second about a case…"

I let him trail off and then nodded, a warm smile dancing on my lips. "There's no need to ask Inspector. Another minute or so won't kill me." I noticed from the corner of my eye how he winced at the callous of my words, and I gently added: "To whoms house are we going to if I may ask?"

Lestrade seemed to relax, leaning back into his seat. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Another inspector?" I inquired, raising a thin brow.

The man snorted, shaking his head. "A madman."

I felt my eyes gleam curiously at such words. Obviously the inspector was bluffing—but what was Mr. Holmes like?

I was bound to find out and as the cab parked, I looked out onto the street and breathed lightly.

221 Baker Street.

It had a catchy vibe to it.

**A/N: So, this is just the prologue, I assure you the rest of chapters will be much longer :D I hope you enjoyed, and I have the perfect plan how to add all the canon characters in this story. Please review! Nothing pains me more to see the view on a story and no reviews. Criticism is accepted but no bashing! I'll update this story weekly, and it should never take me longer than a month to ever update. **

**Thanks!**

**Until next time!**


	2. Aquianted

From the cab I could see a light flickering from the second story window, which I had assumed Mr. Holmes had been awaiting our arrival—well Lestrade's at least. My fingers stiffly coiled around my cane and I nudged the hem of my dress's skirt away with the tip of my boot to prevent from stepping on it, my hand reaching to open the cab door but the coachman was one step ahead, already doing so for me. I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment, my hand still held out in an awkward position and was grateful when Lestrade came around, helping me down. The cold London air was nice, and it was almost painful to breathe so easily after so long in Afghan.

The Inspector stole a glance at me to see that I was steady and then made his way to the door, knocking on the heavy oak. The lights downstairs flickered on and I was standing a few steps behind Lestrade when it opened. A woman was staring at us, her face looking irritated at the sight of the Inspector but then surprised when her eyes laid upon me.

"Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade greeted, tipping his hat down. "Sorry for the late intrusion, but I do need to speak to Mr. Holmes."

Mrs. Hudson had one of the strongest auras for a women that I had ever met; her strong eyes but gentle features instantly making me admire her. I had assumed that this lady owned the house which meant Mr. Holmes rented a room. I couldn't be too sure—but one thing for certain, that she was not related to Sherlock Holmes in any way. The way her face twisted at the sound of Mr. Holmes name ultimately meant she was not blood bound to him.

The woman nodded briefly and ushered us in, and I knew that she was looking at the way I limped and the cane dangling in my grasp. Lestrade removed his hat, clearing his throat to gain out attention. "I'm going upstairs to see Mr. Holmes. Miss Watson, I suggest you stay down here—I doubt you can make it up the stairs in your condition."

I had the supreme urge to prove him wrong but Mrs. Hudson quietly placed a tender hand on my good shoulder, smiling. "C'mon dear, I'll make you some tea. God knows, these _men_ have no proper etiquette with women." She threw Lestrade a pointed look, and the man spluttered in reply, storming up the stairs with little grace.

I smiled politely and glanced once more at the door upstairs before following the woman. "Thank you," I murmured, taking a seat on the small kitchen chair. "Tea would be lovely."

Mrs. Hudson got to work right away, her hands moving quickly, and the sweet scent of herbs relaxed my stiff limbs. I took the opportunity to look around the house wanting to know as much of London's occupants as possible. The living room that was directly next to the front door was not heavily decorated, but quaint. A single couch was in front of the flickering fireplace, along with some small trees on each side. The kitchen was similar, except, it was clear that it was used much more frequently. There were the regular necessities, but judging from the food in the pantry, there was food for only one. I assumed that Mr. Holmes was not much of an eater then, for Mrs. Hudson seemed like a woman that didn't starve.

And then there was the seventeen-stairway that led to another room—I had counted the sound of Lestrade's footsteps.

It was silent for the most part, with the exception of the water pouring but Mrs. Hudson was soon sitting across from me, handing me a fine cup of tea. I thanked her silently, taking a small sip. I could hear Lestrade's voice from upstairs, and I noticed it sounded very….aggravated. "Mrs. Hudson…?" I inquired, my eyes shining with curiosity. If I remembered correctly, the Inspector had mentioned he was coming to see the "madman" on a case.

"Hmm?"

"Is Mr. Holmes an inspector of some sort?"

Mrs. Hudson's eyes rose to meet mine levelly, looking like she was contemplating for a moment. "Why yes, you _could_ say that…"

"I'm sorry, I'm confused."

"Well he's a _private_ sort of detective. Clients hear from him and come here to speak with him about cases when the police won't help. Or more so—when the police aren't making progress."

Well that was interesting. I leaned forward in my seat, and pressed the cup to my lips. "So Inspector Lestrade….?"

"Is the chief of police who comes regularly to Mr. Holmes when all else fails." Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her own tea, wincing as the sudden annoyed yell from the inspector reached our ears. "Needless, Mr. Holmes in not the easiest lad to get along with."

I digested the new information, finding myself nodding slowly when Mrs. Hudson suddenly spoke up once more. "Miss Watson?"

"Yes?"

"May I ask…of your reason of coming to London? I don't believe I have ever seen you around." The woman seemed hesitant, as if I were going to suddenly burst out crying.

I nonchalantly took another sip of the tea before answering, a graceful smile crossing my lips. "I am a doctor returning from Afghan due to my unfortunate incident."

"Doctor? You mean, a nurse of course?"

"No, no. Doctor. I have my medical degree."

Mrs. Hudson's reaction was almost comical, the way here eyes widened slightly and she opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. I gave her a moment and then she responded breathlessly. "I was not aware that women were even _allowed_ to have such a title…Miss Watson, how did you ever manage to do it?"

My cheeks blushed lightly from the awe in her tone of voice, and I answered politely. "It was not so hard, I assure you. Just some ties with the school, was all." That was a dirty lie—it had been living hell and back to even get into the medical studies, and to be allowed to receive the title…..was horrendous amounts of work.

She did not look convinced but nodded gently, a sigh escaping her lips. "How terrible it must have been over there for you…Where are you planning to stay now that you are in London?"

I knew she was steering away from asking me of my injury or how I had obtained it, so I was inwardly swearing at my answer to her question. "I have no idea at the moment."

Her lips pursed, frowning with concern. "Surely you have a family member willing to let you stay with them…?"

"They are all waiting for me at an entirely different place, Mrs. Hudson." I murmured softly, avoiding her saddened gaze. She knew what I had meant, and I am sure my situation seemed absolutely dismal in her eyes. "But no need to worry. The Inspector was said to have a hotel where I could stay at." I smiled to encourage my words.

Mrs. Hudson poured herself and me another cup of tea, and looked at me softly. "I would offer you a room here but Mr. Holmes…."

"Is an unspeakable child who finds anything but death boring!" Lestrade suddenly boomed, and I jumped from my seat at his appearance, the tea cup rattling in my hand. Mrs. Hudson glared, her annoyance radiating at a dangerous level at the Inspector.

"Will you please keep a civil tone Inspector? You'll only aggravate Mr. Holmes more so and he will be playing that violin of his all night." The woman let out a long sigh and I turned just in time to see another man walk down the stairs.

"Inspector," The man's voice was even, but had a steely edge. "Come back when you have a less boring case. But since you insist, the robbery was performed by a woman. The sample of money you found buried in the floor smells like rose water—the tips of it scraped most likely by a fingernail. There's also dirt covering both sides of the paper if you look close enough. That color of dirt is only found on the western part of London. Now don't slam the door on your way out."

The man turned to storm his way back up the stairs when his eyes flickered to me, surprise evident across his handsome features. Without another word, he made his way back to the room upstairs and shut it loud enough for the rest to hear. I clamped my mouth shut at the sight of the red-faced Lestrade and nonchalant Mrs. Hudson.

I do believe I had just met Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Inspector Lestrade had been true to his word, finding me lodging—nothing fancy to anyone but I was perpetually grateful. Mrs. Hudson had given me some food before I left which I had taken gratefully and eaten upon arrival. Now full and thoroughly exhausted with the day, I had put my aching limbs to rest and slept like I had when I was a child. It felt like it had been a million years since I had so.

I was thankful for the lack of nightmares.

My body was still not accustomed to waking up so late, so I was up at six in morning promptly, my body feeling sore and brutally pained. I tiredly dressed into a cerulean dress, wrapping a woolen shawl around my shoulders—I would need it judging from the sight of frost on the windowpane—and grabbed my medical case and my cane with the other. As I made my way to the lobby, I had a sense of dread in my chest.

What was I supposed to do?

Back at the battlefield, I woke up to help some poor young man get a bullet from his arm or perform an amputation. But back there, the other doctors had no choice but to accept me as a woman. Here, in civilization, it was an entirely different story. _Perhaps a free clinic would allow me to work_; I thought and licked my lower lip thoughtfully. It was too late to turn back and go to my room; so I put on a confident face and walked unto the chilly London air. Pulling my shawl on tighter, I walked as best as I could past all the small shops, pointedly ignoring the talk going on around—I was sure that the woman of London were already starting rumors about me. My cane made a small tap every step I took, which caused a smile to cross my lips at the foreign noise.

Naturally, the only thing I had on my list was to acquire a job: so that is what I set out to do. For a good five hours, I spent walking back and forth across London to every clinic. Out of the five I had found, four of them had turned me away without a thought and the fifth asked me if I would prefer to be a receptionist. I was utterly distraught by noon and found myself sitting glumly in the park bench; I must have been a depressing sight to the world.

Pulling the pocket watch from the small pocket on the inside of my shawl, I snapped it shut once taking a glance at the time. It was still too early to head back to the hotel and my body was aching so terribly, I don't believe I would have made it if I tried. My brown eyes settles at the buildings and scenery before me when something caught my eye—Scotland Yard. Was that not where Inspector Lestrade was from? _Perhaps he could find me a job_, I thought with a new found vigor and stood up, picking up my things and walking towards the building.

Many of the policemen's faces twisted into frowns at my sight, and I kept a cool glance as I made my way to the receptionist's desk. She was in her mid-fifties, her hair brittle and breath smelling heavily like cigarette smoke. I barely suppressed a cringe.

"Can I help you?" She drawled.

"Ah yes. Could you please tell me where Inspector Lestrade is?" My voice was soft and I saw the men around me nod admiringly; even the receptionist was expecting a ruder welcome. She pointed down the hall, instructing me to make a right and I smiled once more before walking off.

My happiness for the hope of a career had made me rely less on my cane, so I slipped it under my arm as I knocked on the Inspector's door.

"I'm busy Gregson!" The man yelled and I barley contained a chuckle.

"Inspector, it's Miss Watson." I chided through the door.

I was a bit surprised when the door suddenly whirled opened, those beady black eyes staring at me incredulously yet concerned. "Miss Watson? Are you well enough to be out and about? I'm in a rather busy meeting…"

"I assure you, this will only take a minute." I added, ready to break down the door if I had to.

He looked hesitant, turning to look over his shoulder but nodded slowly before opening the door and I felt my eyes fall upon the other figure in the room: Mr. Holmes. He was seated at the chair directly across from the desk, examining some papers in his hand as if they were pure diamond and I found myself feeling nothing but astonished….and a hint of embarrassment.

Inspector Lestrade led me to the chair beside Holmes, quietly hanging my coat for me and sitting me down before resuming his own seat behind the desk—Holmes hadn't even acknowledged my presence, his eyes glued to the papers in his grasp. It was the first time I had actually gotten a good look at the man, and I do admit, he was dashing in a sloppy, blocked off sort of way.

He was exceptionally lean, but there was a hint of muscular arms hidden behind his rolled up white shirt; his height increased that quality even more so. Even sitting down, I could say that he was at least 5"9 to six feet. Mr. Holmes's face was prominent, one set of a character full of determination, his sharp eyes and ink-stained hands beautifully matching. His black hair wasn't so long, but the bangs fell slightly in his face—judging from his wrinkled shirt and trousers, he had awoken and rushed over here quickly. His eyes suddenly met with mine and I felt my heart slam against my chest.

Oh dear God, I had been caught staring (evaluating, whichever is better).

To my sheer relief Lestrade began to speak, his voice tired and with forced warmness. "How may I assist you Miss Watson?"

Still slightly flustered, I cleared my throat and noticed form the corner of my eye that it was now Mr. Holmes who was scrutinizing my every movement. "I was wondering if perhaps you knew of any place that would…employ me."

The Inspector frowned, his beady eyes glancing at me pitifully. "Miss Watson, a female doctor is absolutely unheard of in London. Maybe a change in career would be a less painful route? You aren't in Afghan anymore."

"So I've noticed." I replied dryly which earned me a surprised look from both Mr. Holmes and the Inspector. I had forgotten to speak womanly in manner. Blast. "Sorry Inspector. That was rude of me."

He waved it off with a movement of his hand. "No need to worry, I'm sure that the injury of your has got you wound up."

I shifted in my seat, feeling Mr. Holmes's sharp eyes still on me and my gaze flickered to him for a moment. I raised a brow and he instantly turned away to my annoyance. Oh, the rude _ass_. Please do forgive my foul language; I do know it is most un-lady like. Now making a point to ignore the man beside me, I kept my gaze solely on Lestrade. "I must insist this wound does not make me a cripple. I still have all my limbs, whether they work to their fullest extent or not and still have my medical knowledge. Which is all I need." I smiled brilliantly and I knew that once again, had sent both men into a state of surprise. Only Lestrade showed it on his face though.

"Well then Miss Watson…I could perhaps have you do a single job to see how you hold up…."

My eyes lit up instantly, waiting anxiously for the next words to be spoken.

"Holmes." Lestrade suddenly said, his voice annoyed but slightly amused. "Take Miss Watson to the murder victim's body we were discussing. See what she has to say about what has happened."

Both I and Mr. Holmes looked startled, glancing quickly at each other before at the Inspector with dread. I would have laughed if I had been watching such a scenario. This man was obviously blind to the fact that Sherlock Holmes was _not_ comfortable being in my presence—and from what I had examined, anyone's to be exact. But Lestrade was not joking and his official tone had made it final.

"Lestrade." said Mr. Holmes in an equally irritated tone. "I need a doctor to come, not a battlefield nurse."

My pride instantly surged up and I looked at him coolly, my gaze meeting his casually despite the fire igniting in my chest. "I have a medical degree Mr. Holmes, and I assure you, I am a skilled surgeon _not_ a nurse."

Mr. Holmes looked on the verge of keeping a polite glance made for woman or glaring at me. I wasn't quite sure, but I was satisfied at his annoyance.

Lestrade looked like he was holding a grin and turned his gaze back at me. "You have no problem with that correct Miss Watson? Dead bodies can be quite gruesome."

I shook my head. "I won't be a nuisance at the sight a body Inspector."

The ferret-faced man raised a brow and nodded slowly. "Well then, Holmes—here's a doctor."

"Why, thank you." Mr. Holmes said through clenched teeth, his eyes glaring murderously at the Inspector but when he looked at me, it was pure formal. No emotion, just set and stone. "Well then Miss Watson…follow me. We are going to the lake to see the evidence."

I barely contained my smile at his seeping annoyance as I followed Mr. Holmes out the door. I prayed I would not regret this.

* * *

**A/N: Whoo! Finally done…what do you think? I wanted to make Holmes respect Watson but still be uncomfortable around her. This chapter was surprisingly amusing to make and please excuse my typos and grammatical errors. I know, I'm bloody awful at using spellcheck properly. Sue me. **

**Please Rate&Review! **

**Until next time. **


	3. Cadaver

When we left Inspector Lestrade's office, the detective had not uttered a word to me, only keeping a good step or two in front of me towards the black cab. Apparently, Mr. Holmes was not much of a talker either. He had turned to me with his all demeaning cool gaze, helping me into the cab and then proceeding to shut the door before I had the chance to even utter a 'thank you'. For the five minutes I had spent with Mr. Holmes in a cab, I already wanted to bash his head in with my cane. But that would be highly inappropriate and seeing as this was the one shot I had for a career _and_ to show Mr. Holmes my capabilities—I could always resort to violence in my second life.

The ride was agonizingly slow to the lake, what's worse; Mr. Holmes had not even glanced at me instead looking outside the small window. He seemed to be in almost a trance, his sharp eyes pondering over an unthinkable question, as if he were wondering about how the world came to be and was on the verge of discovering an answer. His chin was propped neatly the palm of his hand, which reminded me of the portraits I had seen as a child. This man was absolutely driving me up the wall with his silence though, making my respect for him rise only to crash to the floor repeatedly. When he did speak, I must admit it took me completely by surprise. I had to blink twice just to react to sight of his lips moving in my direction. Well speak of the devil, the man wasn't so mute.

"Miss Watson." He spoke with an air of formalities and his eyes were piercing my own. "Do you have experience with examination of victim bodies?"

"Naturally." I said, and that was an understatement. I had been the best of the class while learning of autopsies and the human anatomy even if the teachers did not acknowledge my existence. But bragging was certainly a dirty habit, one that I had never acquired. Mr. Holmes nodded once, taking a long time to let the words sink in and then spoke again.

"The victim is a fourteen-year old girl."

I barely managed to suppress my wince, my eyes flickering to his face in surprise—had he told me to test me reaction? Or was he afraid I'd be emotionally unstable for such an autopsy? When I didn't reply right back, he looked up at me and his expression was unreadable. I nodded softly after a moment. "I've seen worse Mr. Holmes."

"This bothers you Miss Watson." He said with such a nonchalant tone I nearly slapped him for it. Of course it bloody bothered me! It's a child who had been murdered! Of all the stupid, unbearable, heartless things to imply with such a calm figure—Mr. Holmes interrupted my thoughts with his piercing glance, with his brows knitted together as if he had been reading my thoughts. My anger evaporated in an instant, because I had never stopped to think…it bothered him as well. I relaxed in my seat saying nothing for a long time. I was being entirely selfish.

"Mr. Holmes. Any death is not a pleasant one nor do I ever rejoice in seeing it." I said. "But if there is a chance we can find who committed such a crime, then perhaps, it will put the parent's at rest."

He said nothing after that.

The rest of the way was rode in silence and when the cab came to a stop, I was surprised when Mr. Holmes opened the door for me, outstretching his hand. I timidly placed it in his, as he also handed me my medical bag and cane and I had to swallow the urge to scowl at him. His gentleman acts could not fool me; he was still behaving like a child of having to take me with him.

"Holmes!" A man yelled from afar, his figure approaching us.

"Gregson." He greeted with a curt nod, and I tried not to glare when Mr. Gregson quite literally gaped at me.

"Why would you bring a young lady along Holmes? Are you mad? Lestrade will have your head!"

"Lestrade," Mr. Holmes muttered under his breath. "Was the one who _sent_ her. Gregson, may I introduce to you Miss Watson—the doctor performing the autopsy."

I blushed at his introduction, swiftly moving my cane so that it hit Holmes square in the ankle when Gregson took my hand in a dumbfound stupor. I had to bite my inner check to prevent from laughing at Mr. Holmes expression, his eyes narrowing. "Pleasure to meet you." I smiled prettily and saw that half the police officers were watching the exchange with confused, entertained stares.

Take _that_, Mr. Holmes.

Gregson nodded, a bit more enthusiastically this time and whistled. "I never thought I'd see the day a woman doctor was allowed in London. Well ah—Holmes, Miss Watson, the body is over there."

I swiftly brushed past Mr. Holmes who was now not even attempting to hide his childish glare, and I chuckled. "Come along _detective_, we have work to do."

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, which only added to my happiness; such a stubborn man. We walked onwards, passing the officers and there were some men across the street looking anxious as they attempted to catch a peek. The lake was cleared of all London residents, some simple pokers sticking from the ground. To my utter annoyance, the body had been moved. I could tell from the water dragging from the edge of the lake to higher ground.

It seemed Mr. Holmes was not all too pleased by it either. "Gregson, where was the body located?"

The man looked up from his clipboard to us and swallowed. "It was discovered by a man who had been rowing his boat with his wife—a romantic evening I suppose—and was in dead center of the lake. They had to pull the corpse to shore Mr. Holmes."

It made sense to pull the young girl from the center of the lake, but to do so without gathering information? Foolish. Yet, if I had been in the couple's situation, I would have dived right into the water to get the girl without a seconds thought. So I was in no situation to reprimand. I took a small step forward, eying the young girl's corpse for a moment before bending down. I saw the way Mr. Gregson tensed as if I was going to pass out at the sight or worse—regurgitate.

"Is she allowed to do this Holmes?" Gregson hissed, trying to be quiet but failing miserably.

"She's a doctor Gregson. Why wouldn't she be?" Holmes snapped, and I knew he was still sore with me—but wanted my evaluation to see whether I was utterly useless or not.

Rolling my eyes before beginning, my hazel eyes ran over the girl: Her skin was ghastly white, a usual symptom for drowned victims, and the lips were swollen blue. Her skin was at a terribly low temperature which only increased that fact. My fingers gently ran over the girls scalp, attempting to feel for a lump or a cut that might have caused the drowning. I heard Gregson inhale sharply and I turned slightly to glare at him, which instantly made him settle down. Not only had I found one bruising lump—I found seven. The girl had probably been knocked out with a club of some sort—I had to check the rest of her body to be sure.

"Turn around." I ordered at the men who were watching me intently. I saw the way both of them shuffled, not bothering to question to the obvious reason why. They had no right to see a naked girl's body, whether she was still a premature child or not. At least not while I was in the presence. Holmes tried to peek over his shoulder, so I grabbed my cane, hitting him promptly in the back of his knee. He glared but followed orders this time. What a shock.

I murmured a soft apology under my breath to the poor girl before unbuttoning her dress and felt my face go white when I did. I had not prepared for the corpse to be so damaged, especially since she seemed to have died from natural causes with her garments on. The rib cage had shrunken to the point where the bones were practically visible, mottled with purple and black bruises. The smell was overpowering and I was thankful I had managed to keep a straight composure.

"Death was approximately a week ago. She was beaten." I said aloud, horrified with myself that I sounded so calm.

I heard Gregson swear under his breath, still not turning around though. Holmes said nothing.

Lifting her tiny wrist in my hand, I examined it to see circular bruising, and my eyes widened as I lifted the sleeves up further. They were finger-shaped bruises. "The murderer was obviously a male." I breathed, and Holmes responded to this.

"How do you know?" He asked and I noticed he had turned around without my permission.

"The shape of the bruises. The fingers are much too thick to belong to a woman and the man has to be from 6'0 to 6'3 tall…" I covered the girl's body, seeing as I only needed to point out the wrist and other features. "Look Mr. Holmes." I pointed to her neck. He bent down beside me, his face so close I could smell his clean-shaven face. I swallowed and ran my fingers over her neck. "There's a smooth bruise line half way around the neck."

"If I am correct doctor, that happens in during drowning does it not? The water building up in the throat causes the skin to swell, thus making it discolor."

I had the feeling he had the answer to his own question and was only seeing how I'd respond. Would I agree or would I argue? Naturally, I stated my reasons. "Yes, this may be true but nevertheless this is much to smooth to be from that. A cord of some sort had to be used…from the size, it would be an inch wide cord or wired surface." I pressed my finger against the line. "The man probably came from behind to catch the girl off guard, moved to strangle her. She probably threw a fight because he then proceeded to beat her until she was silent." I scrutinized the body. "The man was left handed."

Holmes looked a more interested with this fact and then looked at the formation of bruises. "Elaborate Miss Watson."

"It's darker on the left side of the neck, ultimately meaning that…" I trailed off letting him solve the rest. Gregson was thoroughly lost so I finished explaining. "When he was strangling her he was pulling much harder with his left hand, when a right-handed man would have had a more equal balance." My fingers were touching her skull again when I suddenly stood upright, grabbing my cane as a sharp pain ripped through my leg. Of course! How could I be so dense? Of all the bloody details to forget! "Two men committed this crime. One came in later though and he was the one who hit the poor girl over the head to knock her out. Gregson? Where in the lake did you say she was found?"

"Dead center, Miss Watson." He replied in awe, watching both Holmes and I in wonder.

Mr. Holmes was still kneeled by the corpse, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his chin resting in his palm. "You said that couple was rowing when they found the body meaning…"

"That they had killed the girl, holding her for a few days and had no place to hide her." I continued, almost breathlessly and walked towards the rim of the lake.

Holmes nodded. "A dead body floats in water and someone would have spotted the corpse much sooner which means the body was thrown in here only a night before. So there should still be some tracks in the ground." He got up, following me to the shore and nodded slowly, as if he were inspecting every spec of dirt grain on the ground. To his annoyance and my utter dismay, there were none. The men had been smarter than I had expected but Mr. Holmes was suddenly at work again.

I saw him pull a small vial from his coat pocket and bend down by the water, scooping some into the flask before popping it shut. "Miss Watson, your evaluation matched perfectly from what I had thought from the start. Of course, you added things I had not seen." He said, and I nodded to his curiosity. "You knew?"

I shrugged, holding my wince at the effort. "You don't seem like a man dense enough to miss the details. I was sure I was only helping through the smaller ones."

He nodded once more and held the vial up. "Did you know that leather shoes or boots give off a distinct coloration when in fresh water?"

Gregson was looking at us very confused now and my look of understanding did not help that. He was most likely planning down to narrow down what company of shoes it was and of what quality. This would determine the social statues of the murderers. "Yes. I did, in fact."

"Will you shut your mouth Gregson instead of letting it hang open like a gaping fish—!" I glared at Mr. Holmes, smacking him swiftly on the thigh with the cane before he could finish and he let out a startled scowl.

"Stop that."

"Stop behaving like an impudent child then." I snapped right back we stared at each other like two school boys ready to engage in a round of fisticuffs. Naturally, I being female and having a more feminine exterior had the upper hand; I did not look like I could pack at a punch, but I was very good at two things: Fencing and shooting. Both skills I had acquired from my deceased brother. "Are you quite finished, Mr. Holmes?"

He straightened his composure almost instantly, that professional aura emanating from him. "Of course. After you, _Doctor_ Watson."

I proceeded to smack him once more with my cane for his smart tone.

**

* * *

  
**

My shoulder and leg were painfully stiff when Mr. Holmes had dropped me off at my hotel, not even muttering a goodbye. He was still sore with me, still uncomfortable and now loathed my cane. He twitched every time I had moved it in the cab. Limping my way to my room, I was relieved when I saw a tray of food already awaiting me. I picked up the small finger sandwich, letting the taste melt in my mouth before heating up a pot of tea.

The events of the day were still fresh in my mind and I felt a smile spread across my lips. I had proven not to be so useless after all, which was enough to allow me to feel satisfied. I realized then, that I had gone on the job on my own free will—for I had not been paid. Sighing deeply, I poured the tea into a cup, took a sip and then made my way to the washing room. I needed a hot bath to soothe my limbs and with such cold weather, the warmth would feel wooingly nice.

My hand slowly turned the handle on, instant steam pouring from the bathtub. I then proceeded to remove my garments, which I will spare you the details of writing, and nearly cried when I felt the warm water surround me. Being out in the cold for so long had almost made me forget what normal weather felt like and fell deep into my thoughts.

Mr. Holmes.

He was such a turmoil of emotions for me, and thus far, all of them were related to how irritating he was. I had to admit, the man was a bloody genius. His determination and aspiration to succeed were enough to admire him but he is also an anti-social man with no manners to others. I pressed my knees to my chest, placing my chin upon them and took a deep breath. I know that I am no genius nor shall I ever become one—but I had the feeling that Mr. Holmes was surprised that I was not totally a fool. I had proven one person wrong, but what of the rest of the world? Whether or not Mr. Holmes would ever regard me to his own standards was beyond me, and I was still jobless. I wouldn't be able to pay much longer for the hotel or for food. But I was alive, unlike that poor child today.

And that small shred of hope made me smile miserably.

* * *

**A/N: Yes for food poisoning! It makes me miss school which gives me more time to write these chapters. I am very pleased with the way this turned out, but then again, I am delirious from my "poisoning". For those of you who comment, you have no idea how happy you make me. I read every single one, even if I don't respond. They give me inspiration to write and sometimes I get some good ideas and the criticism helps as well. Please review! At least do it this chapter because it would be wonderful medicine~!**

**Until next chapter!**


	4. Tents

I wished for the fall, for the long days that meant it was still light even when evening had set in hours ago. I wished for the warmth that would seep into your skin and the trees changing colors providing the perfect scenery. Anything would be better than winter, where the sky was constantly gray and dreary; the weather rotated between rain, sleet and snow of anecdotal degrees; the wind ripped the air from your lungs with the merest of breaths and the chill constantly bit into bare flesh so that your cheeks were sore by the end of the day.

My melancholy levels were reaching epidemic proportions.

Quietly pulling the coat tighter around my shoulders, I swore softly as the cane in my hand was not helping my hands from warming. It had become almost frozen from weather. There were children scattering around the park, their noses a bright pink from the cold and I found myself smiling despite my mood. The memory of me as a four year old came to mind, for even I was a child who could be tempted by the rich snow. It seems as if a thousand years had passed since then.

One of the boys grabbed a fistful of snow, his feet moving delicately across the snow before flinging it with all his might. I could not tell if his cheeks turned pink from the cold or the blush of missing his friend—no, brother. They looked very much alike. Taking a moment to let the scene sink in, I continued my walk towards the center of the park and my fingers tightened against the thin, silver cane. I had the comical situation in my head that if I stayed in the same position for long, I'd stay frozen like that.

It had been exactly five days since I had performed the autopsy or had spoken to the Inspector and the Detective. By the end of the third day, I realized with a bitter depression that was the last I'd ever hear from them. The inspector had most likely decided to let me do the job to begin with for his personal vendetta against Mr. Holmes—from the little time I spent with those two they reminded me of a calm cat and the growling dog.

I had taken the liberty of keeping an eye for the newspapers though, constantly keeping an eye out for news on the young girl's murder; there was none. But I was not one to spend my days moping when there were things to be done, so naturally I set off to where I had begun. I had visited a clinic on the far side of town, still hoping for a chance of career—I was rejected almost instantly. The walk back alone had left me utterly exhausted, cold, and miserable. Nevertheless, I kept my chin up in hopes of a promising event. It paid off. The next morning I finally spoke to my neighbor, Miss Amadora Cammeresi. She was an early age of thirty, her rosy cheeks shining healthfully in the morning light. She was a very average woman but the kindness seemed to radiate from her very skin, making her appearance sweet.

She had offered me dinner whenever I asked, knowing without me saying, of my tight budget. With no job, barely a stable home and without a single friend of all of London—I must have been a sad sight. We spoke idly, very polite and hesitant to reveal anything about ourselves. Amadora was an Italian woman, her last name giving her away but those wide teal eyes would startle anyone. With the olive colored skin, I had assumed she was not from London right from the start. She was an aspiring actress , she told me.

I felt the color rush to my cheeks when she had told me so. An actress was suicide among the decent woman—almost half as terrible as my own deeds. The male society looked down upon them, finding them rebellious and good for only a night. I, for one, respected (adored) the life of opera and dramas. Amadora must have noticed this, for she had smiled and patted my hand gently. I departed with a warm smile not long afterward, and the next day we did speak, even going out to lunch. My first friend. That was two days ago.

So here I am now, wandering the park with children that did not even belong to me. '_Day Five: Miserable single woman bravely facing the London's treacherous weather. If only you could see me now brother…'_ I sighed lightly, tapping my cane with more enthusiasm against the icy pavement. One of the boys from earlier suddenly burst from the mound of snow in front of me, a loud gasp escaping his lips as his body smacked into the gravel with a thundering _smack_. The other child, the eldest brother, I presumed, came rushing over but I bent down beside the little boy first.

"Are you alright?" I asked, carefully placing my hand on the child's shoulder and frowning in concern. My eyes scanned his body for a sign of cuts or a sprained ankle, wrist, etc. He was staring at me with wide blue eyes, his blond hair falling gently in his face. There were unshed tears growing in his eyes from the pain and his lower lip had begun to tremble.

"'M fine, Miss…Just a bruisin'." His voice was superbly polite, even with his strong city dialect. I saw his hands trying to hide from view and I smiled, pulling his wrist lightly, making him sit on the closest bench.

"C'mon now. Let me just see if you will live."

His eyes widened at the sentence, looking alarmed. "Live, Miss?"

"Well it could possibly get infected…." I slowly started, trying to hide my clear amusement. The little boy barely contained his gasp and withdrew his hands from his pocket, practically throwing them in my face. His older brother finally caught up to us, clasping his hands over his knees to catch his breath.

"Charlie! What were you thinking!" He stopped as his eyes locked unto mine and removed his hat in a jiffy, shuffling a bit. "Oh. Good morning madam. I apologize…"

I waved him off and laughed smoothly for his pride's sakes. "It's fine. Just be more careful boys. Your mother won't be happy if you two come home battered."

The little child, who his brother had called him Charlie, was still waiting my inspection anxiously. I quietly grasped his hands in mine, using my fingertips to lightly prod at the red, scraped skin. Nothing was broken nor sprained—but his hands had been burned a tad bit from the cold ice. Luckily for him, I had my medical bag with me.

My limbs were aching from being bent down so much but I pointedly ignored it as I searched for the bottle of lotion and gauze. The older brother was eyeing Charlie nervously and I began to speak calmly. "I don't believe I know your name."

"Michael, ma'am." He replied instantly.

"Michael and Charlie…Handsome names." From the corner of my eye, I saw both of them blush mildly. Charily opening the cap to the lotion, I placed a small amount on Charlie's red hands and he let out a large breath before a weak smile grew on his lips. The ointment clearly helped soothe the burning skin. Michael also seemed relieved and was beginning to fiddle with his hat as I untwined the gauze and began to wrap his small hands. Ah, the innocence of children. The younger one could be no older than five—the older one most likely seven from his height.

"Why do you have a cane, miss?" Charlie suddenly blurted out and I saw his brother blanch.

"Charlie," He hissed through clenched teeth, before turning to me, apologizing profusely. "Do forgive 'im miss, he don't know how to hold 'is tongue." I raised a brow—the boy had a dialect just as strong when he was nervous.

"It's fine. No harms done." I nodded and then rose, barely containing my wince at the sudden pain shot up my thigh. "There! All done."

"Thank you." Both boys muttered and they scurried off without another word, back into the mounds of snow. But even as they left, I heard Michael say to his brother: "She was a kind nurse."

I sighed, my eyes growing soft. I wondered if the day would ever come that I would be referred to a "doctor". As I picked up my things, heading back in the direction of the hotel another thought came to mind.

Would I ever have the heart to accept such a title after all I had done?

* * *

It was six in the evening when I returned to the hotel, my limbs burning from the exercise and I went to sit on the lumpy chair. I did not have the energy to remove my dress, nor did I have the strength to care. My eyes had just begun to flutter when a sudden knock on the door made me jerk upright. _'Who…?' _Quietly gathering myself and pushing my limbs to work, I made my way to the door.

"Hello?" I called, beckoning for a name.

"Miss Watson!" A happy voice chided from the other side, sounding quite flushed. "Oh Joanna, I do hope I'm not troubling you at such an hour!"

A large smile spread on my lips, and I quickly smoothed by hair and skirts before opening the door. Amadora, the neighbor I had mentioned earlier, was standing on her toes from excitement and she opened her arms as if to model. I felt my cheeks burn as I saw what she was _wearing_. Man's clothing. I would have gasped if she did not make her way into my room, wiggling her brows in a most unmannerly fashion. Strangely—it reminded me of myself.

She was wearing man's trousers, even the chocking necktie with a small black bow hanging from it. Her brown boots, ones I supposed one would wear for horse racing, went to her knees and she had a messenger boy's hat tilted gently upon her black curls. "How do I look?" She asked with such enthusiasm, all I could do was nod dumbly.

I was going to become exiled from the public for such a scandal of being associated with this woman.

I honestly could care less.

"Amadora! What—where did you manage to get such clothing?" I ushered her in, looking around before closing the door. We were speaking as if we had just been caught flirting! My excitement was boiling, the pain in my limbs all forgotten.

She twirled slightly before throwing her head back and letting out a melodious laugh. "Now, now. I knew you had some fun in you!" She leaned very close and I could smell cologne heavily. "An actress has no problems getting clothes, you know."

I noted the bag she was holding in her hand and I raised a brow. "Oh? But what is the _occasion_?"

"Well my dear Joanna, since you ask…I was thinking of taking a stroll downtown. Arena grounds."

"The arena grounds?" I exclaimed, my golden hazel eyes locking unto her incredulously. "Is that even allowed…?"

Amadora scowled, looking as if she wanted to roll her eyes. "Of course not! The only women who go there…" She shuddered. No one with a scrap of mind would flaunt their feminist body with those savage men. To do so was to invite robbery—or worse. "Never mind. Why do you think I'm dressed as a man?"

"Oh." I replied simply. Then I looked up at her once more. "Did you come to bid me farewell for the night then?"

She threw her head back and laughed again, eyes filling with mirth. "Do tell me you don't plan to stay here for the night! No, no. You are coming with me my dearest girl!" She opened the bag in her hands, and I watched as more male clothes dropped to the ground.

"You must be joking."

"An actress never jokes. She only acts." Amadora shrugged.

The more tactical part of me told me to deny the invitation, thinking of my public image if I were to be caught—the utter humiliation! The more overtaking side of me was saying otherwise.

In minutes, I had removed my gown with much difficulty. I had gathered the clothes, hiding behind the weak screen to change—the trousers were black, the collared shirt hiding my bosom well with the tight collar. I slipped the black coat on, feeling quite naked and embarrassed but put on the worn-out black boots. When I stepped out of the screen, Amadora's eyes widened.

"My dearest _Mr._ Watson. I do believe you look quite handsome as a male. Nearly as beautiful when you are a woman." She smiled warmly at my blush, continuing. "But you're hair….We must hide it from view."

She pulled another hat from her bag, tying my hair up tightly so that only my bangs fell into my face. Satisfied, she put the hat on and let me look at my reflection. I must say—the transformation was impressive.

Amadora gave me a wide, wool scarf and stepped back to inspect her work. "At least you're hair is wavy at the ends—tying it up makes the tips coming out look natural." She said finally. I nodded slowly, grabbing my cane and she grabbed my hand and we departed out into the London night.

* * *

I was dreadfully cold by the time we reached the tents, the men bustling wildly with their drinks sloshing heavily. I grimaced at the odor but kept a sharp eye on Amadora's back. I would have held her hand, but if they were to catch two "men" holding each other—it would be disastrous.

One of the men was shoved roughly into my shoulder and I cringed in pain, the shock making me stagger back a bit.

"Blast it! Watch where you're goin'!" Amadora suddenly barked at the man, her voice coming out rough and I had to blink to realize it was her. An actress such as this would never cease to surprise me. The man growled in reply but his merry way through the crowd.

"Sorry." I mouthed to her but she kept walking and there was a loud uproar of voices from the red tent. I was beginning to lean more on my cane as the fresh pain was beginning to crawl into my senses but I was still curious to see what the commotion was about.

"Boxing tent." Amadora whispered lowly, her eyes sparkling with new found vigor. "Keep your head low. Don't look anyone in the eye."

I listened, bowing my head so that the hat hid my face, swallowing as we ventured further into the mass. The cries got louder and there was a doorman by the entrance.

""Ere now gents! Entrance fee!" The old man squawked and Amadora fished the money from her pockets. It jingled in the can as she let it drop and we both entered, a rush of temperature hitting me in the face. The mass of bodies were producing enormous amounts of body heat, the smell of sweat making me choke slightly. The sound of a bell made the crowd roar and I winced slightly.

Amadora waved a young teenage boy over, keeping her voice hoarse. "Mind telling me what going on 'ere boy?"

The boy nodded vigorously. Apparently the fighters were from different weight classes all together. The giant one, known as Aarons, from what I could see from afar, had a prestigious reputation for his bloodthirsty pounding. I could not see their faces well but I found myself staring at the opponent's bodies. We pushed our way steadily to the front and once more, I was roughly shoved. The man turned to face me, his face bright red, and his large puffy cheeks seeming boiled

"First match, eh lad? Careful." He guffawed.

To my relief, he turned away. I had been mistaken for a young boy—better than nothing I suppose. Amadora beckoned me forward with her wrist and as another thundering _crack_ sounded through the air, a wave of cheering tore through the cold winter air.

Both of the fighters were stripped from the waist, the larger man looking quite murderous. His opponent had his back to me, but I could see the sweat glistening on his skin. Aarons was the larger one judging from the men screaming his name in the crowd in a drunken stupor. His nose was obviously broke, blood pouring down his face and I shuddered as he suddenly began to smile.

He must have lost a tooth without realizing it.

I placed my hand to my mouth as that meaty fist of his crashed into the fit, smaller man. He staggered back but recovered quickly and threw a punch of his own—it hit Aarons square in the gut and the giant spat a wad of blood unto the floor.

"Who's the other fighter?" I whispered to Amadora, who was heavily absorbed with the men beside her—gambling no doubt. She shrugged.

"Don't know. Poor thing. He's muscular but that Aarons is enormous."

But head snapped back to the arena as half the men booed—the agile man was moving his head quickly, avoiding blows like he had been predicting them. He suddenly took a step back and Aarons took this to his opportunity to lunge: The man maneuvered his heel to get out of the way, delivering a deadly blow to Aaron's jaw and the crowd went in an uproar at the sound of the sickening bones breaking.

Broken jaw. No doubt.

Aarons crashed to the floor and the bell shattered with an ear defining ring.

"Well look at that…." Amadora breathed as her eyes widened in shock. "The man won!"

The man turned to face us now, and as I looked up at him I felt two different types of shocks….First, he seemed to be unscratched except for a bruise on his cheek. Second….

"Good Lord," I said to no one in particular. "Mr. Holmes has a nasty right hook."

**A/n: Sorry for the wait! I really do apologize! Well this chapter was fun to write, and I had to write it several times till I got it right. Please tell me if I'm going too fast. Amadora was added to the story just because I needed a woman to help Watson throughout. If you guys don't like her, just say so, and I'll add her only when I must. Please review! I read all of them and I do listen to your advice and thoughts eagerly. Till next time!**


	5. Appearances

The heavy knock on the door caused Lestrade to look up in annoyance, his beady eyes locking unto the door. "Come in!" He barked and his office was suddenly filled with two officers along with Gregson. The Inspector felt his brow furrow, his eyes narrowing. "What's happened?"

"Another murder," Gregson replied quickly before handing him a folder. "Found in the lake just like the other child."

"Another girl?" Lestrade quipped, his patience running thin. It was already eight in the evening.

"No, boy this time. We believe the boy belongs to the parents who came by this afternoon—the ones who couldn't find their sons."

"Sons? How many corpses did you say?"

"One, Lestrade."

"…Did the parents identify the body?"

"Yes."

The Inspector leaned back in his char, rubbing his chin at the information. That was a more complicated situation than he had anticipated. "Gregson! Go and fetch Holmes immediately and explain to him the situation."

Gregson suddenly looked sheepish. "I stopped by Baker Street first sir," He ignored Lestrade's annoyed scowl. "Holmes wasn't home."

"Damn." He swore softly and then got up, reaching for his coat.

"Lestrade?"

"Well he's probably wandering around somewhere! You two!" Lestrade growled at the officers. "I want the area cleared of any people until my return. No one is allowed to approach the corpse. Gregson, you're coming with me. We'll cover more ground if we split up."

* * *

The revelation that Mr. Holmes was skilled boxer was not the only one unveiled that night. As he pulled on his shirt, collecting the admiration of those who profited from his victory, he said nothing but was staring unswervingly in our direction. Almost immediately a shudder ran down my spine and I turned my head down, hoping to avert his gaze. There was no possible way he could have known it was me but I could _feel_ the penetrating glance of his steely gray eyes. I could hear his voice, even over the crowd, as he audibly dismissed himself and the panic surged in my throat.

Swallowing, my hands instinctively tightened around my cane, trying to hide it from view as well. No doubt he would recognize the instrument I had practically whipped him with! The heat rushed to my face, the pain coming back in my limbs from the stress that was reverberating in my veins. Mr. Holmes was pushing his way through the crowd slowly, his eyes still boring into every gentlemen's soul, reading their movements as if it were a language. I prayed to God that he would not see through my disguise.

If I were to be caught in such a situation, I swore to myself I would ship back to war in an instant than to suffer from the public humiliation. I was sure there was a law against this act, so indecent for a female that I had to control my legs from bursting out of the tent in a dead sprint. The body heat that was heavy when we had entered had now begun to suffocate me, the palms of my hands ringing nervously at my sides.

"We must leave," I whispered lowly to Amadora, who was collecting her money. "_Now._"

She turned to me, raising a delicate brow in surprise at the urgency in my tone. Her eyes curiously looked behind me, and then she bent her head so only I would hear. "Nonsense—it is still early. If we leave now, we'll look suspicious," She murmured softly, but still kept a man's voice in case of eavesdroppers. "Why, here comes the fighter now."

I did not wait for her to finish the admiring tone as she referred to Mr. Holmes, and I pulled my hat on tighter, pushing my way through the crowd in the direction of the exit. I was vaguely aware of Amadora calling a fake name out to me, but I ignored it, keeping a steady pace. The men were much larger than I, but I managed to clear the rocky path.

The smell of sweat was practically overpowering now, my face twisting in disdain. Was there no escaping this place? Quickly looking over my shoulder, I could see Amadora's head shaking in shock but turning back to the gambling men—not far behind was Mr. Holmes, his eyes still searching but were not staring _directly _at me. I tuned back without another thought.

Normally, in these situations I would keep a cool head. But never in my life, had a man like Mr. Holmes alarmed me so much. It was a competitive thing at the least, one that I wanted to prove to him that I was not all a prat. He did not seem a man to gossip, or to tell others of my actions—alas, I rarely cared of my own well-being. I knew I was lying to myself when I had said that I was leaving, now, in such a rush for my _reputation_.

The thought made me want to cringe.

The muscles in my shoulder blade were burning with the strain from avoiding crashing into the men, but there was nothing that could stop me from exiting the madhouse. The thoughts in my head were reeling—what in the good Lord's name was Mr. Holmes doing here? I had honestly thought of him as a recluse, one that only left his home to simply snap at someone.

Remembering his agile movements in the ring brought a fiery red blush to my cheeks. If he had indeed seen me, I would be perpetually mortified for life—I had seen his bare chest! At last, I burst out the tent's flaps, letting out a small gasp at the blast of cold that hit me.

Blast, I had forgotten about the winter's fury. I kept my chin up nevertheless, my cane carrying more and more of my weight as I snuck behind the tent; the voices of the exciting crowd was getting softer and softer. I was unconditionally grateful that men's clothing was much more maneuverable then a women's. However, the weather was still bitter and I was sure to get a cold if I stayed wandering for too long.

Soon I was alone in the unlit downtown ports, the only sound were my footsteps and the water hitting the docks. From a distance, I could see some drunken men sprayed on the walls, seeming completely knocked out from their beverages.

I looked back and forth, frowning as I could not recognize where I had wandered off to.

Amadora had clearly not come looking for me, probably unable to get through the masses of the crowd so easily. A pang of fault flittered through me, mentally keeping a note to repay her as soon as I could—but now was not the time for guilt. I gently bit my teeth into the inside of cheek nervously as I tried to work out where I was located.

I felt very foolish.

How could I have left, without even knowing the proper way around London? It was a wonder why I had even become a doctor, I thought pessimistically. I took an extra stride back towards where I had started; hoping to see a familiar street but the panic began to build as I could not even hear the sound of the boisterous men from the tents.

The cobblestones under my boots were grim, thin sheets of water forming into ice in the thin cracks. I was careful to avoid placing my cane on such areas but I had never had been lucky. The cane skidded forward, making my only support go with it even though I held my grasp on it. I did not fall but my body lurched forward, my leg barely catching myself with a painful jerk. The pain was instantaneous, my vision wavering at the sudden heat of pain but I held unto the cane for dear life. Wobbling slightly, I was beginning to stand correctly when a strong grip suddenly grabbed me around the elbow.

My mind seemed to have reacted on its own, for the moment the cold fingers steadied me, I whipped out my cane hoping to strike the assaulter in the face. As I turned though, the figure caught the cane with the other hand and my panic rose as I attempted to rip it from the person's grip, readying myself to scream or not—no one decent lived in this area.

"Miss Watson."

I do believe my heart stopped at that moment, because I was not staring a drunken man or a murderer—I was staring into the sharp eyes of the detective. I nearly went limp with relief, and I believe I did because his grip on my elbow tightened. "How did you know…?"

Mr. Holmes exhaled sharply through his nose, eyeing me with a hint of irritation and an emotion I could not quite identify. "It wasn't very hard to realize you were female, for one. But what I would like to know _is what you are doing here."_

I swallowed, straightening up before taking a step away from him. The pain was still throbbing in my shoulder, my leg, and now my head as I answered with as calm of a voice as I could conjure. "I believe I have the right to ask the same thing, Mr. Holmes. You still haven't answered my question. _How_ did you know it was me?"

He glared at me with such vehemence, I had the urge to smack him with the cane which he had finally let go of. "Miss Watson. First of all, you do not walk anything like a man nor do you smell like any of the attendees at a ring fight. You are wearing rose water.

'_You do not look or smell like you belong here either._' I wanted to say, but held my tongue. No point in angering him further.

"Secondly, although the hat," He gestured to it with a snappier tone, "Did nothing but hide your longer hair, the tone and shine of it was clearly visible. The sounds of your footsteps as you walked out of the tent were much lighter in addition, meaning you were in no way heavy. A young lad would have most definitely weighed more than that."

I could feel my face flush slightly but I kept my gaze direct. "Anything else you would care to add Mr. Holmes?" I muttered, showing my own reluctance at his appearance as well.

"_Yes_," Mr. Holmes growled. "That cane of your\s fully gave you away—its half silver. Nobody with a right mind would bring one of those to the slums of London."

It was silent for a span of time, both of us trying to stare the other down until I could hardly stand it. "A woman," I did not want to say Amadora's name in fear of involving her to Mr. Holmes's wrath, "brought me here in order to get away from the hotel. I assure you; I had no intention of getting myself caught in such a situation."

"Miss Cammeresi, correct?" He replied dryly, ignoring the look upon my face. "She comes regularly. No need to be ashamed—the woman is good at her cover, the voice change helping significantly. I had discovered her months ago when she had come to visit. I'd never think she would bring _you_ though."

"I—Well…." I struggled for the right words until finally I narrowed my eyes at _him_, which caused him to raise a brow. "Mr. Holmes, I am still confused on two matters: One being, why _you_ are here, fighting nonetheless! And the second—why did you come after me?"

If looks could kill, I would surely be at my death bed. My, this man had a child's temper. "I was here looking for someone." He replied shortly, gritting his teeth.

"A suspect?" I asked in surprise.

"You are most observant." He muttered half-heartedly. "Running after you has wasted precious time."

"But why did bother Mr. Holmes?" I asked, my eyes gazing over his face uncertainly. It was dead silent once again, his face looking torn in-between irritation and an exasperation for a reason I could not identify. Then it went back into the stony, calm face I recognized.

"These areas are dangerous for a young woman. With the murderer still loose, anyone could be a possible target." Mr. Holmes cleared his throat, throwing a quick glance at my cane before gesturing forward. "It would be best now if we stopped with the questions and returned."

"Returned where?" I asked. "To the tents?"

"No," Mr. Holmes sighed. "To your home. There are no carriages at this hour so I have no choice but to walk you home…"

My face flushed and I noticed, so did his. Clearly he was uncomfortable and still freshly sore with me. It was very vulgar for a man to be walking a lady home at such an hour, but that was not the main problem. He must have thought of me as a fool. I was sure the disguise had worked well too, seeing as no one caught me.

"Not home, Mr. Holmes—a hotel. And what about the suspect?"

"I will be returning later Miss Watson by myself. It is none of your concern so please refrain from intercepting any further with your nightly _adventures_." Mr. Holmes replied simply, already walking towards the streets a good two steps in front of me.

The words had stung more than I had expected they would, my heart clenching painfully. Of course it was none of my concern, for after all, I had only performed a single autopsy. But the bitter disappointment had clouded my mind, my steps becoming more forced and I did my best to keep a brave face on. I had not noticed Mr. Holmes glance at me over his shoulder, mainly because I was too busy staring at the cane in my hand, hating it more than I ever had before.

How I wished the ground would swallow me whole.

* * *

**Holmes:**

Miss Watson had refrained from speaking as we walked in silence and a part of me was undeniably grateful. I do not think I could stand it if the woman's opened her mouth one more time or would I have any patience to conceal it. I had lost a night's work walking her back to the hotel, but if I had decided not to, it would have distracted me the rest of the night.

When we had first met, I had deduced the fact that she was suffering from the war—mentally and physically.

The non-expensive dress she had been wearing, the obvious cane and the way she leant into it was enough to suffice. Her eyes were also hollow—the same eyes of the soldiers I had seen return from war. It sickened me to see such a young lady come back the same way.

Yet she was female and I had never gotten along very well with the gender. Or anyone for the matter, but that is beside's the point. She had a very sharp mind and to be a doctor with such an obstacle was an impressive feat; not enough to overcome her odd behavior.

Miss Watson had the heart of a female but the intuition and words of a quick-witted lad.

I am also annoyed to admit that I was feeling slightly guilty—I had been a tad too harsh to her. _Alright_. Perhaps more than that. A sudden noise caught my attention and I looked up, scrutinizing the dark streets.

"Miss Watson," I whispered suddenly and she looked at me expressionlessly. "Someone is coming. Keep your head down and do not speak unless I tell you to do so."

The fact that she did so without questioning told me how my words had disheartened her. I barely contained my grimace. There were footsteps approaching and the revolver in my coat pocket seemed much heavier than before. It was until I recognized the familiar ferret face that I relaxed.

"Inspector." I greeted with a smug smile tugging at my lips. "I see you've gone for a nightly run."

"Holmes," Lestrade glared. "Gregson and I have been hunting you down since eight! It already three in the morning!" He suddenly noticed Miss Watson and frowned. "Who's the lad?" Miss Watson's masquerade was better than I had thought but then again—I always had an eye for the art of disguises.

"His name is John." I replied smoothly and was happy that Miss Watson did not look up. "One of the newer Irregulars. He can't speak so don't try."

"Ah. Got it." The Inspector muttered before taking a large breath and his expression morphed into a more serious one. "There's been another murder. This one is a boy though."

I frowned at the lack of knowledge and had to contain my exasperated sigh. "Well?"

"He's eleven years old; his parent's already identifying the body. Found him floating in the lake—just like the other girl."

"Name?"

Lestrade shook his head to my disdain. "The details will be given at the scene, Holmes. But first, we need a doctor for the autopsy. I will send Gregson to fetch Doctor Evans—"

"—No." I interrupted and I do not know who was more surprised at my next words: Lestrade, the young lady behind me, or myself. "Send for Doctor Watson."

Lestrade spluttered and I watched his eyes grow incredulously. "This is not a joking matter Holmes!"

"Good," I replied. "I'm not joking."

I could only imagine what was going through Miss Watson's mind at the moment but the Inspector seemed outrage. "Holmes—surely you are only doing this for jibe. Why her? She's smart but having her on the team…"

"Why not?" I snapped and shrugged. "Since you are asking me for my assistance then I will need help from those I choose. I will visit the corpse in exactly two hours—I expect Miss Watson will be there too."

Lestrade's face had gone aghast but he nodded, still looking reluctant to my amusement. "You are out of your blasted mind."

I waved off his insult with and then turned to Miss Watson, whose head was still down. Slipping a paper from my coat, I frantically began writing some notes on it. "John. Go across the hotel and find this room number. I believe it is the one where Miss Watson stays at. Give this note to her immediately."

Lestrade grunted in frustration, muttering curses under his breath. I ignored him and Miss Watson took the note from my hand.

From the brim of her hat, I could see a faint smile tugging at her lips. She nodded and then carefully hiding the cane from Lestrade's view, walked off towards the hotel. I had the urge to snort in her direction.

"I hope you know what you're doing. I will not have you tarnishing the name of Scotland Yard with your silly amusements." The inspector growled but knew it was a lost cause. I knew he didn't hate Miss Watson—more furious with the fact in "using" her.

"It is a good thing I don't work for you fools then." I did not wait for his reaction but began walking towards Baker Street.

The note had been clear and I knew that in two hours, I would be one step closer to finding this murderer.

_Miss Watson,_

_2 hours._

_Don't be late. _

_-SH_

_

* * *

  
_

**A/n: Whoo that was fun to write! I didn't want to take the story line to fast and make Holmes go all sweet with Watson when I'm barely on the 4****th**** chapter….That would be weird and the cliché of my story would scar me for life. Hope you enjoy this chapter! Once more, sorry for typos. Reviews are loved! **


	6. Unpredictable

My breath was short as I finally reached my hotel room's door, my hands unable to properly put the key in the hole from shaking―it was not due to the cold either. There were two things I still could not comprehend though, as I twisted the key, hearing the click of the door unlocking: One, the parchment in my hands was from _the_ Mr. Holmes asking for my assistance _willingly_; Two, that I was actually complying to his request with this much contentment. I quietly pushed the door open, unable to stop the growing smile from spreading on my lips and didn't want the mood to be tainted by annoyed, woken-up neighbors.

The room was quite dark but as I stepped in, making sure to lock the door behind me, I saw a figure shift in my bed. For a second, the blood in my veins ran cold, my grin vanishing until I noticed who it was and a quiet sigh escaped my lips. Amadora. She was still fully clothed, but was sleeping quite heavily, her hat thrown in the corner. Poor girl. I assumed she had been waiting for my arrival as I glanced at her over my shoulder and grabbed an afghan from the drawers. Time was not of the essence after all―I had two hours.

I gently placed it over her, watching her sleeping expression relax at the warmth, her body twisting to pull it closer. If it weren't for the fear of waking her, I would have laughed. I most definitely had to find a way to repay her. Once seeing that she was not in any position to awaken, I took a seat on the lumpy seat by the window. I honestly could not get my hands to stop fingering the small piece of parchment held in my hands.

It was such a trifling situation.

Pushing my legs a tad further to stretch them a bit, I made a point of ignoring the pain and focusing on the letters. _Two hours. Don't be late. _They seemed to be taunting, enwrapping me in the childish game of cat and mouse.

Earlier, I truly believed that Mr. Holmes had hated my very breath but then he asks me to join him one last time―I was sure that this was more of a pity help ―as the doctor. A small smile spread on my lips at the memory of Lestrade's facial expression. I was pleased that I wasn't the only one in shock at least.

Now, I had other matters to preoccupy myself with and I quietly pulled the men's clothing over my head. Carefully unlatching the small pocket watch clip from the trousers, I took out a clean gown; one that was simple in every manner― I wore it before the war many times. The cloth was as soft under my fingertips, the feel of the stitches vigilantly twisting the outside of the hem and as I slipped it on a small sigh escaped my lips.

It had been very long since I had felt this comfort.

The time was now drawing nearer for I had spent the next thirty minutes preparing myself to look more decent and resting my limbs. The near fall I had taken at the docks could have ended quite badly if Mr. Holmes had not steadied me because I knew for a fact that I would have been unmovable from the pain. And God only knows what would have happened if one of the men had found a defenseless woman at the docks.

Glancing at the moving hands of my pocket watch, I took a deep breath and resumed my seat by the window. I don't recall how I had managed to fall asleep but I did. My eyelids felt like sand, pulling them down farther as I tried to blink awake. Everything went dark; the only sound was the sound of my own breathing and the light snoring from Amadora.

Small flakes of beginning winter snow began to fall outside.

* * *

"Miss Watson!"

I turned my head at the voice as I stepped out of the cab, my eyes trying to spot whoever my caller was and smiled politely as I watched Gregson approach. He tipped his hat ever so slightly, and made a gesture towards the lake behind him. "Holmes has been expecting someone—I was not expecting it would be you, I admit."

'_Neither would I.' _I mused and then nodded. "Where is the body?"

Gregson immediately went back to business, his shoulder straightening and he took on an authoritative voice as he spoke. "Same place as before Miss Watson. Lestrade said that it was found floating once again in the center of the lake." His eyes wavered slightly which instantly caught my attention. "The mother and father just departed to their home—a messy situation."

The gravel of hardening snow crusted the edges of my shoes as we walked down the small hill where the lake awaited. Many of the Yard's officers were lined up around the perimeter, their eyes exhausted with the early morning. I myself had only received a tad less than an hour of sleep and my body was suffering the effects.

"How so?" I asked, from Gregson's earlier statement.

Gregson shuffled slightly, removing his hat from the top of his head before continuing. "Well you see Miss Watson; the boy that was murdered was only eleven years old." I sensed that was not the muddled part. "His parents had come earlier yesterday morning explaining to us that their sons had gone missing. The one in the lake was the eldest—still no sign of the younger lad though."

At this piece of information I felt sympathy crawl up my neck, my head nodding slowly to register the man's words. The older brother had probably protected the younger child which would result in his unfortunate demise—which led to two options. One, being that the younger boy had escaped. Two that the murderer had possibly either disposed the boy somewhere else or held him captive.

"Watch your step Miss Watson. The floor has become icy." Gregson warned. "Even the lake is beginning to frost over."

He was absolutely right. I dug my cane farther into the ground to secure my footing, the extra force causing my limbs to ache. I instantly regretted not taking pain medication before coming especially as Mr. Holmes glanced at us over his shoulder a few feet away. Gregson left to speak to Inspector Lestrade and I quietly came to a stop by Mr. Holmes kneeled side.

"Miss Watson." He greeted and his eyes were once again scrutinizing me. His steely eyes snapped back to the covered corpse before him but I saw his face twist into a frown. "No rest, I presume?"

"I'll see to it when this is over." I replied calmly. "And you? There are circles under your eyes Mr. Holmes."

This time he rose, his body towering over mine in comparison. There was a ghost of a scowl on his lips but it was as if he had forgotten how to at the moment. "I had other things to attend to. Before I forget, Mrs. Hudson has asked me to give you her regards."

"Your landlady is most sweet." I mused and placed a gloved hand over my mouth to conceal my laugh at Mr. Holmes look of mock disgust.

"Sweet," he snorted delicately and then eyed the cane in my hand grudgingly. "Well yes, _Doctor_, the body is ready for your examination."

I rose my cane slightly with satisfaction as he took a step back and then bent by the corpse. From under the woolen, musty afghan I could see a pale hand, the fingertips a deep blue. Being in the water had no doubt chilled the body from the terrible weather. The lake was beginning to grow a thin sheet of ice—the beginning of winter not fully taking its toll just yet.

Gently leaning over, my fingers curled around the end of the blanket to pull it down and something in my body cried for me to stop. I blinked in surprise at the chill that ran over my arms all the way down my back. Mr. Holmes arched a brow but his eyes were searching mine as if balancing my reaction. I pointedly ignored it and when I pulled the single cloth blocking me from the corpse, a fresh wave of nausea hit me.

The boy was indeed eleven years old; those wide, innocent eyes open in a glazed expression. His brown tuff of hair was plastered to his forehead, still wet from the lake's cruel water and his brown trousers and coat were soaked to the bone.

There was no visible sign of wounds on his body, not even a speck of blood this time. It took seconds for my mind to register the small body before me and I believe I had gone deadly white because Mr. Holmes suddenly was right in front of my face.

"Miss Watson—take a deep breath." He whispered lowly.

My eyes were still locked unto the small boy's body and the name drifted in and out of my lips. Michael. The boy. Dear God, the _boy._ His face was still clear in my memory, how he had come running up to me as I assisted his brother—his little brother was still nowhere to be found.

"You know him," Mr. Holmes said. It was a statement. Not a question.

I nodded slowly and then swallowed, taking a small breath and resuming a steady composure. "His little brother had gotten hurt the other day and I had wrapped his hands for him. Charlie was his name. This boy," I tried not to wince. "_was_ his older brother, Michael. I was not strongly connected with them Mr. Holmes so do not concern yourself."

"If you wish not to continue—"

"—I will inform you." I snapped with more vehemence than I had intended and then immediately bowed my head. "Please apologize my rudeness Mr. Holmes." I was a woman and this was superiorly unsettling behavior for one so I pursed my lips tightly after that and continued my work.

"Doctor Watson," A gruff voice suddenly greeted from behind and I heard Mr. Holmes let out an irritated breath.

"Lestrade, she's occupied at the moment."

"So I see," The Inspector replied scathingly, his annoyance aimed more at Holmes than anyone else. "I need to have a word with you Holmes."

The two began arguing about only God knows what because I shut their voices off and concentrated solely on the boy's corpse. I had gently unbuttoned his shirt, the tips of my fingers tracing the blue, swelled skin from the water. Frowning, I peered closer. There was no cuts, not bruising except for the swelling of the lungs from intake of water, no sign of struggle—it was simply as if poor Michael had fallen into the lake.

Lestrade was still hissing at Holmes who had a bored expression by the time I buttoned the shirt up again. I would have interrupted their quarrel if it were not for the fact that a numbing sensation was filling me and they had just began walking up the hill, their backs to me.

I was at a complete loss. There was not a doubt in my mind that said that this was a murder but how did one manage to kill a boy without touching them? My heart went out to his younger brother whose whereabouts were still unknown. Did the boy get drowned? But it didn't make any sense! Why would the man murder the first victim so brutally but settle for drowning the second round? Surely there still would have been signs of trouble.

Tilting Michael's head up with a surgeon's touch, the first thing that I noticed was the swell marks on his neck. It was not strangulation like the other girl, but from drowning as Mr. Holmes had assumed previously.

I looked up at the lake; the hint on sun coming up making it seem less menacing than at night but there was a fresh set of fog creeping up. Quietly covering the boy's corpse with the wool blanket, I stood and began making my way to the outer rim.

There were no footsteps.

_Perhaps on the other side of the lake_, I thought and started making my way. The lake was rather large, the good side of it facing the park, the other covered heavily in thick trees and bushes. It gave the park a lovely setting but when I thought of it, a murderer _would_ hide in the ugly part of the lake.

Keeping my eyes trained solely on the ground for a hint of footsteps or for a sign that would lead to a possible to a suspect, I used my cane to guide the way. Already, there was no more grass but dried, frozen clumps of mud and sticks. Even the sun was covered by the trees.

"Miss Watson?" Mr. Holmes called out to me and I did not turn, his voice sounding very vague. I had not realized that I had ventured so far so quickly.

Using the cane to push some of the rubbish away, my heart lighted up as I saw the sign of footprints. They were small, most definitely a child. Glancing upward, I was aware that Mr. Holmes and Lestrade were a good distance away but Mr. Holmes was making his way toward me. I had to strain my eyes to see him fully.

The footsteps got deeper, clearer as I kept pacing though and I frowned as a ripple in the lakes surface caught my attention. Leaning forward, a dark tuff of brown hair made me gasp, the blood draining from my face instantly. The lake was still rippling, as if someone had just leapt in and I leaned even closer, dropping my cane. "Charlie?" I called out to the water, the thin layer of frost and murkiness making it hard to see.

"Miss Watson!" Mr. Holmes voice was urgent now, still far away but filled with irritation with the fact I was ignoring him.

A pair of hands suddenly shot from the water, the bitter fingers wrapping around my ankles and a loud gasp escaped my lips as they pulled me in.

**A/n: So very sorry for the wait. Won't happen again! Going too fast? Sorry to say, don't expect Holmes to get all protective next chapter. Remember—I have to develop character before I develop any hints of romance. I apologize for the cliffhanger and thank you all for the reviews! **


	7. Ignorance

**Chapter Seven**

Back when I was still a child, my mother had always reprimanded me on my behavior and things that I should do and others I should avoid in order to withhold a womanly reputation. One evening, while my family—my mother and eldest brother— were having supper, my mother had informed me what I was to do if a male were to attack me.

Where I lived, I was one of the few young females and apparently one of the more beautiful. I often argued the fact that I was simply _middling_ and nothing else. My mother, a very shy woman was always fearful of what others thought of the family. I loved her to pieces, but we rarely saw on the same level.

At this point of the conversation my brother had excused himself from the table to his bedroom which neither I nor my mother protested. It was not till years later on his death that I regretted not being able to see his brown eyes for support. Once he was out of the small dining area, my mother fixed her watery auburn eyes on me and spoke clearly: "Joanna, just head my words. If a man is to attack you, do not fight him off. Pretend to fall unconscious; play victim for a woman never raises her hand to no one."

I thanked God every opportunity that I had that I _never_ listened to my mother a single day of my life.

When my body was pulled into the freezing lake's water, my mind seemed to react instantaneously from both the pain searing up my limbs and the growing numbness.

All had twisted into a haze of mud and ice and I found myself unable to process what was happening for an instant.

There was somebody pulling me under, but the fingers clasped around my ankle were most definitely belonging to a male. Digging my fingers into the thick mud of the lake, for we were still within reach, I threw my foot out as best as I could to kick the man wherever I could.

The breath in my lungs were running short, the mud slipping from my fingers, oozing disgustingly that sent shivers down my spine. I would absolutely _not_ be taken in such a manner, so I twisted my body upward, a spew of small bubbles escaping me. How foolish I was! To venture so close to the rim of the lake!

In anger, the last of my breath has left, a mouthful of freezing water swallowed. Panic surged through me, chocking to get the liquid out which only worsened the quandary. The dress I wore was thankfully of not heavy material which allowed movement effortless but the bitter lake had removed any chances of my flexibility.

The water grew clearer as I thrashed harder, when at last, I could make out the form of the man's body. Narrowing my eyes to get a closer few, I felt as if large weight was being lifted off my chest. Wisps of my long brown hair swam in my eyes, the water seeming to be forgotten, and a sudden numbness of both mind and body taking over.

I was sure that I had been pulled frontward into the water, but the grasp on my ankle suddenly disappeared. There was no tugging, no pulling. I was staring upward, the dim sun very visible from the water's breaking surface. My back was pressed against the lake's soil, and if I had the energy to reach out my arm, my fingertips would be out of the water.

It was if I had been awoken from a sleep, every individual bubble now visible, as if I could see every speck of soil upon the water. There, above the surface, I could see the figure of a looming character. The face in the water grew cleared, something so horrifying that I could not shake it from my thoughts. The eyes were not visible but the cruel, menacing smile was long as the grotesquely smooth voice mouthed to me through the water.

"_Ave atque vale_."

Long, strong arms suddenly wrapped around me, the urgency snapping me out of a trance, the cruel face morphing away. Just like when the Jezail bullet had dug into my flesh, I remembered where I was. The lack of air hit me so hard in the chest, my mouth opened and I chocked, swallowing mouthfuls of the liquid, my chest feeling ready to explode.

With all my might, I fought back the strong arms, knowing full well that it might be my only chance. I felt my elbow dig into soft tissue, most likely the man's nose. Then, I was out of the water.

My head broke through the surface for air a shuddering gasp escaped my lips at the freezing air that hit my cheeks. Almost immediately, the man who had been holding me came up too, his hands dead white, from what I could see.

"Put me down," I practically screamed, but my words die off my lips with my heaving coughs.

"Calm down, you're safe!" The voice was hoarse, barely containing a chatter of the teeth. "Stop moving!"

Weakly, the surprise of which the words belonged to made me tilt my head to see who it was. There was blood running down from his nose which I had most likely broken and his eyes were attentive. Unexpectedly, the strong arm suddenly wrapped around my waist, jerking me out of the water fully so that everything knee up was in the air.

"Mr. H-Holmes!" I stammered, my teeth chattering uncontrollably to my disgust. His sharp eyes were piercing into mine but snapped to the lake with horrified fascination.

Mr. Holmes had most likely had run over in my direction because his chest was heaving for air, his whole frame shaking from being waist deep in the lake's murky water from what I assumed the cold. Lestrade was open mouthed with Gregson by his side, both of them shaking for breath when he quite literally carried me over to the hard soil.

Both of us dropped on the floor, but he was kind enough to drop me a bit lighter than he had himself when we reached the shore. Glaring at me, his body was shaking in almost an uncontrollable rage. Before he could open his mouth and spew his hatred upon me, I got down on my wrists, hacking up practically buckets of water.

It _burned;_ the pain so severe I wished for myself to simply pass away into the beckoning darkness. But I was too cold, too miserable, and Mr. Holmes shouting could virtually keep me from death.

"_What_," He seethed, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, dripping unto the ground. "Were you thinking? Are you a bloody _fool_? Throwing yourself into the damn lake! Of all the things!"

I tried to respond but my throat seized up again, another body-racking cough ripping through my chest.

"Miss Watson, are you alright?" Gregson asked, his body bent down by mine.

I murmured yes through shaking lips. How dreadfully embarrassing! To be the damsel of distress—the thought made my stomach churn unsettlingly. I was internally grateful and I could not deny that once again, I was being selfish. Mr. Holmes on the other hand was most infuriated, his expression cold but professional.

That is when Mr. Holmes words sunk deeply into my heart, a terrible horror filling me. _Threw myself_?

His clothes stuck to his deadly pale skin, his nose and face scarlet with the wind. Yet, the power in his next words left me gasping for more air—not from the water either. "One second you are upright, and then you quite literally fall back first into the lake! You foolish, _foolish_ woman!" His voice was quite aggravated now, his arms rubbing at his own arms to regain warmth to the skin. "Were you trying to kill yourself or is this how all you Afghan nurses behave _when you get back from the battlefield_?"

"Doctor," I croaked out, my weary eyes locking with his sternly. "Doctor." I repeated; his nostrils flared. "I did not throw myself into the lake…I assure y-you Mr. Holmes of that! Someone pulled me in!" My words were through chattering teeth, the muscles in my jaw aching.

He looked surprised for a moment, his eyes going back to the lake with scrutinizing eyes. "There is no one in the lake. You were hallucinating." He growled, but he could not hide his own curiosities. He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly sparking with a newfound vigor. "…pulled you in?"

I straightened up as much as possible, but my limbs prevented me from standing. The pain was reaching an unbearable point where all I wanted was to sleep. "I know what I saw Mr. Holmes—you can't believe I'd throw myself in the lake."

He was no longer fully listening, instead going back to the edge of the lake and peering inward. Vaguely, I saw him smell the water, his hands pulling a vial from his soaking coat. In a blink, he bent down, slipped drops of the lake's water into the vial and shoved in back into his pocket.

Then turning, his eyes were gazing at my own heavily, his arms barely suppressing shivers. "What did you see exactly Miss Watson?"

"We must do this later," Inspector Lestrade interrupted, his eyes still wild with what I could identify concealed terror. "Both of you are sure to die from pneumonia if you stay in those clothes…"

Mr. Holmes let out a long, cold breath, looking positively mocking. "What? Are you now suddenly a _doctor_ Lestrade?"

"Mr. Holmes! Please," I finally shouted, but then reduced my voice to a low murmur. "I must tend to your nose as well—it might be broken."

It was at that exact moment where Mr. Holmes actually _looked_ at me, but not just my eyes. I could only imagine what he saw through his brilliant, yet rude mind. I was shaking as if I were a leaf, my hands white, my face pale, my hair dripping icicles to the frozen soil. It was not only the cold that I was shaking from though. My mind was in a whirlwind.

There was no man in the lake.

For a fact, I knew someone had pulled me into the water but my mind was playing doubts on myself. Had I finally lost my mind? Oh dear Lord, I did not know what to think. I was sane, still healthy, not willing to end my life—but to see such a cruel vision such as that?

I did not believe in witchcraft nor in the dark arts, but a part of me truly was horrified. Mr. Holmes could see all of this with those sharp eyes of his, because for the first time in our first meeting—I was relieved when he opened his mouth to speak.

"Let us make haste to Baker Street."

**

* * *

**

"What have you men done," Were the first words Mrs. Hudson screeched when Mr. Holmes helped me into the home, Lestrade and Gregson standing not far behind. Her intentions were not meant badly, but more as: "What have you gotten the girl into?"

My head was having difficulty staying upward, but the cane in my arm suddenly clattered to the ground. Mr. Holmes too, was shivering, his hands no warmer than mine but was much quicker. His hands shot out, steadying me with my good arm draped around his shoulders, his knees bent to my height. "Mrs. Hudson, I need dry towels, please."

"Warm water as well, if you would," I breathed after her, receiving a barely recognizable flash of wariness from all of the men. "Mr. Holmes will need it for the nose…"

Mr. Holmes looked startled for a moment but then shook it off, placing me on the living room's couch. He looked positively exhausted to me, which woke me up instantly through the haziness. "You mustn't f-fall asleep, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I know doctor. One moment while the landlady brings the towels," He replied shortly, the irritation in his voice evident…but I could sense the hints of gratitude.

Gregson and Lestrade were standing awkwardly by the door, looking at one another with understanding. "Holmes!"

Mr. Holmes eyes them with slight disdain, nodding for them to continue.

"We have to be back at the lake to take away the body," Gregson said.

"Leave then," Mr. Holmes replied and all three of their heads snapped in my direction as a hoarse cough left my mouth to my complete embarrassment.

"We will send for a cab for Miss Watson to return to her hotel later this evening," Inspector Lestrade said before tipping his hat and the two departed.

Seconds afterward, Mrs. Hudson came running in, a pile of white towels in her grasp, a basin of steaming water on top of it all. "Move Mr. Holmes, I must get this girl warm!"

Holmes scowled but did it anyways and my cheeks blushed as Mrs. Hudson grabbed my ankles, pulling them unto the sofa to rest. My cheeks turned scarlet despite the paleness of my face from the water and Mr. Holmes as well flushed, turning away. It was inappropriate to show that type of skin to a male.

"I will be changing in the sitting room upstairs," He stated and grabbed one of the towels before marching up the stairs.

"You have to warm y-yourself thoroughly Mr. Holmes!" I called after him, afraid he would contract a fever or pneumonia.

"Hush now child," Mrs. Hudson whispered, her warm hands burning against my frozen skin. I winced as she applied the pressure to my shoulder, the pain rippling. My small gasp made her eyes wide and she quietly moved her lips, as if silently praying.

"Let us go to my room. We have to get you a change of clothing."

She asked me if I could walk and with a hasty nod, we both made our way to the small room, her arm guiding me the whole way. Even with the hazy signs of exhaustion taking me over, I made it to the bed and collapsed. In front of Mrs. Hudson I could show a bit of weakness, with I knew she had taken notice of.

"You poor girl," She sighed and helped me out of my gown. In an hour's time, she had stripped me down, dried me till there was not a speck of water left and then made me take a warm bath afterward. Mr. Holmes had not come down yet to my concern but she kept reassuring me that the man was fine.

She had a blue gown that fit me nicely, one that she had said she had worn as a young woman and it was nothing fancy—I adored it anyway. Mrs. Hudson had urged me to sleep but I was still wary for the fact of nearly drowning. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid if I was to fall asleep, I would not wake up.

"Mrs. Hudson, I am eternally grateful for your kindness, but I really must help Mr. Holmes with his nose!"

"Be as you will but I will prepare supper."

I had only made it out the door when I saw Mr. Holmes standing in the living room, looking much drier and there was color in his face. The angle of his nose was slightly askew to my guilty conscious, but he had wiped the blood from his face. He nodded stiffly when I walked out, his eyes saying nothing.

"I will have to break it back," I murmured softly and he only nodded, gesturing to the stairs.

"Can you make it? I'd much rather prefer to do this in the sitting room."

"Of course."

I fought the pain in my limbs by putting weight on my cane, cursing each of the seventeen steps along the way. I had never been in Mr. Holmes's area of living and was quite embarrassed to do so. When he swung the doors open, I could not deny that I was not surprised. It was a complete mess. There were files strewn across the floor, piles and piles of books with foreign writing on the walls. There was a large desk by the window but the surface was barely noticeable because of the mountain of vials, test tubes, and beakers filled with colored substances.

In the middle of the room there was a basin of heated water, along with my medical bag. I nearly gasped at the thought I had nearly forgotten in back at the lake. Mr. Holmes was eyeing my reaction but shrugged stiffly, his lips turning to a frown.

"This is all you will need, correct?"

"Yes, this will do perfectly," I smiled thinly and he took a seat by the fireplace. He was telling me to do what I had to without actually opening his mouth, to my amusement. Such a stubborn patient: not even speaking. I gently inspected his nose, my fingertips brushing against the smooth skin.

"It's only a small fracture," I murmured quietly and made him tilt his head. "Now I am going to snap it back so please refrain from moving."

"Have you ever done this—?" Mr. Holmes let out a muffled yelp of pain as I quickly jerked my wrists, the nose going back to place. His eyes were full of frustration as he glared at me, his hands flying to his nose.

"My apologies, Mr. Holmes," I smiled. "It is much better to get it done fast."

"Quite," He muttered bitterly, grabbing the warm cloths and placing it against his face. The warm helped soothe the aching pain but it should have been feeling better once it was back to its original position. I grabbed the cloth from his grasp, assisting him in dabbing the faint sign of fresh blood away.

He was uncomfortable with my touch but I being a doctor, would not let him go untreated. It was silent for the most part except for the warm cackling of the fire. My limbs were screaming for rest, the memory of the lake making me shudder. It was all coming back to me, the face, the long menacing smile….

"Mr. Holmes, do you know what '_ave atque vale'_ stands for?"

His eyes locked unto mine, his voice full of questioning. "It is Latin," He replied instantly and then paused. "Why do you ask?"

I could have told him right there and then that I had heard the man say it in the lake. Would he find me crazy? I was still not even sure how it was possible that I had hallucinated something so _real_. I did not know Mr. Holmes well enough to think he would not find me mentally ill and that simple fact scared me. There was a man and there was something chilling about the mystery. I shrugged carelessly, and replied as casually as I could. "I had read it in a novel. I was merely curious."

Mr. Holmes did not look like he believed me but did not question, instead pushing my hands from his face lightly and rising. The sound of hooves was outside the window. "Your cab is here." His long, delicate fingers placed the cloth to the side and grabbed a pipe from the desk.

Mrs. Hudson came into the room, a basket in her hands filled with a steaming pot of what smelled of broth. "Miss Watson, surely you will take this?"

I smiled good-natured. "Of course, thank you Mrs. Hudson." She left as I took the basket from her grasp and limped my way towards the door, the cane feeling oddly comforting in my grasp. Just as I was to leave through the door, my back facing the great detective when Mr. Holmes spoke up. His voice was quiet, contemplative.

"_Ave atque vale…_It means 'hail and farewell'."

My eyes closed, soaking in the information and closed the door behind me without another word.

* * *

**A/n: Sorry for the wait, once more. Don't freak out, I am not making Watson crazy or hallucinating things. But I can't say much because that would spoil future chapters so you will just have to wait! I said last chapter I wasn't going to put any lovely dovey things in this chapter so I hope you don't reprimand me on Holmes's mean behavior. I added slight hints of bonding though~! Anyways, I hope you enjoy! Please review! Tell me what you think so I can fix anything if I need to. **


	8. Warning

_You are not hallucinating. This is an update for "When the Story Ends." It will all be explained at the end. _

**Chapter Eight**

I had been worried since the incident at the lake, the words haunting me to no end. My stomach had been twisted into an uncomfortable knot causing extreme paranoia and discomfort, the nightmares coming back quite brutally and I do believe I had achieved in giving myself a cold. And yet at the moment, it was the least of my worries.

"Please stop fussing so much," I said as Amadora latched onto my arm, her head cuddling furiously against the crook of my neck. It was as if the people who gave us strange looks of disdain were not important; my cheeks had already begun to take a rather pink shade from it all. I honestly had never blushed so much before coming to England but dear _god, _how was I supposed to contain my self-consciousness when I was being viewed in a disgraceful manner?

I do not know how Amadora came to be but I did know one fact—the actress was determined to make a show with whatever she did. She had been energetic the moment I had returned from the lake, her mouth moving too quickly and weighing what she should lecture me for first—ditching her at the slums and worrying her sick _or_….

Her catching me leaving with a "ruffian".

"Are you romantically involved with him because darling, you don't seem like the type to—"

I brutally gave a slap to her arm. "For the last time, _no._ I went home after that."

"But why ever would you do something like that? You ran out of their like bat from hell!" I cringed at the choice of wording. "I _saw_ the boxer from the ring follow you out my dear girl so no more lies!"

"Miss Cammeresi…"

"Oh don't use _that_ tone with me!" Her cheeks puffed up to a very childish size and I couldn't tell whether to chuckle or continue giving her a flat stare. "You are so mean to me Joanna! We are supposed to gossip: it's in our _job description_." She gave a dramatic waggle of her brows and stiffened her back, one hand clutching her corset. "Because that is what the fine women of London _do!_"

A snort escaped me and my hand fluttered to my mouth to stop a full laugh escaping me.

I did not even mind the fleeting look we received from a passing couple. It was sad fully true—we were expected to gossip "politely". Whatever that was. "Amadora please, keep your voice down a tad!" I hissed like a schoolgirl. "They might hear us!"

"And? Let them! I am an actress and I shall enjoy my own voice to its fullest~!" Her voice had most definitely reached a "shouting" level. Some were actually coming from their shops to sneak a look at whoever was making a bloody fool of themselves. "Come now Joanna, don't tell me you're shy now!"

I rolled my eyes and continued walking, tapping my cane to a steady beat against the pavement until I felt a warm arm loop through mine once more.

We both burst into a silly fit of laughter the moment our eyes met and I did not care who saw either—it was my first friend in over sixteen years.

I was getting much better at it all.

**

* * *

**

"Do you need some tea Miss Watson?"

I politely declined Ms. Hudson's worrisome offerings and took a seat at the living room's cushions. My head had begun that darn throbbing once more and I could pretend to be as strong as I wanted but it still was a nuisance. Of all times for the cold to start acting up, it had to be when I arrived at Mr. Holmes's home?

Amadora had walked me to the hotel where I had a telegram waiting for me from the detective asking for my presence and than had been kind enough to snatch me a cab. For all the pestering she had done, I couldn't help but have the need to thank her fully.

But the walk through London's cold streets may not have been such a bright idea.

"You should take the offer of tea."

I turned my head in the direction of the stairs and was met with the sight of an unhappy looking detective, his nose thankfully still in the original shape I had first seen it as. For the one who had actually broken it I took pride in knowing that I had been the one who fixed it. I raised a brow at his comment. "I should say the same for you. The winter could affect you as well."

Mr. Holmes gave a noise of irritation. "I was not the one who took a bath in London's lake for so long," he said and then gestured to the stairs. "Shall we?"

I clutched my cane steadily following him up the seventeen steps with a sudden wave of exhaustion when I did reach the top. The last three had been brutal, the pressure on my chest beginning to spread to my legs. My lungs seemed to seize for a moment but I forced the cough working its way up to stay put and was surprised to see Mr. Holmes actually holding the door open for me—a sign of chivalry?

I nearly hit him to make sure it was real. I murmured a thank you and was relieved that the fireplace was lit but something was terribly off about the atmosphere of the situation.

"Sit," He said.

For once, I did without question.

He was shuffling through papers randomly and I took the opportunity to glance around at the room. It seemed a tad messier than the last time—there were vials strewn upon the floor, strange and colorful liquids still in them. The violin was still leaning against his chair, his bed not even done, nor looked like it had ever been done. I blinked at the sight of a revolver though and Mr. Holmes seemed to have noticed me staring at it for he grabbed his and shoved into the nearest drawer.

With his back facing me again I couldn't help but want to snoop around a tad. Glancing at all the papers on the floor I noticed a fresher looking one and something about the words caught my attention. A letter? "Your telegram didn't say much Mr. Holmes," I murmured, keeping an eye to make sure his back was still to me as I bent down and snatched the parchment from the floor. The name couldn't be…

Mr. Holmes turned to look at me and I swiftly crumpled the paper quietly in my hand, already in perfect sitting position. He gave me an odd look but said nothing for quite awhile. "Miss Watson, I'm sure you are aware that the murders have a pattern in days, correct?"

I took a second to think about it. "They've both had three days apart from the other."

"Correct. Tomorrow is the third day from the boy's death."

I winced. The memory of Michael's dead body still was a fresh wound. "So you're saying a murder will happen tonight…?"

"I believe it will," He murmured and then he abruptly appeared awfully uncomfortable. "That is not the reason I asked for you to come over this evening though."

My fingers coiled around the note paper, careful not to let it crinkle aloud in any manner. "Oh?" My own voice was hesitant, like treading in dangerous waters; I had to know what to say. I had never seen Mr. Holmes anything but snappy with me.

He opened his mouth to speak but at the very moment Inspector Lestrade suddenly whirled into the room, his face very red and spewing some nonsense about "evidence". Mr. Holmes's face fell into one of pure, unadulterated frustration.

A face that I actually _could _recognize.

"Miss Watson!" The man looked surprised to see me and immediately gave a tip of the hat. "I'm very sorry but I must speak to Holmes at once. Would you min d waiting downstairs…?"

I was going to say certainly when the sudden itch blossomed through my chest to my throat and I instantly rose and used the cane to level myself. "No, no I was actually just leaving."

Now the detective had his eyes back onto me and I gave a forced polite smile—which caused Mr. Holmes's an even more confused, pure unadulterated face of frustration. "I still need to speak with you—"

"I'll stop by tomorrow," I interrupted and without another word, swiftly made my way out the door and down the steps. I barely managed to say a goodbye to Ms. Hudson and swiftly shut the door behind me before the series of sneezes began: blasted cold.

I did not even feel shameful for using such language but truth was, I absolutely loathed being sick in front of others. I was a doctor which gave some reasonability to my ideals and as the soft sounding yet brutal feeling of the sneezes went away and I was left with a childish sounding wheezing breath, I nearly said the curse word aloud.

The parchment that I had picked up from Mr. Holmes was still being clutched and I snuck a quick glance at it, the black ink giving me shudders from head to toe. I let out a tiny sniff to prevent my nose from running. I would have to read it when I arrived at the hotel thus why I so swiftly caught a cab and made my way through the lonely, winter London streets.

**

* * *

**

Lestrade never failed in wasting his time.

Nor did he ever come at the proper time, this particular incident more irritating than usual. Shuffling through his things as Lestrade spoke about some clues he might find influential to the case, Holmes merely nodded his head and resumed to searching for fresh bullets to his revolver. The detective didn't really enjoy guns—at least not knowing that he might have to be aiming it at a person than at his walls.

"Holmes," The inspector said. "Are you listening?

"No," He stated. "Are you quite done, yet? I must attend to other matters and you just interrupted one of them."

His face turned an unattractive color of purple, lips spluttering curses before managing to at least force out one sentence. "I was distracting you from Miss _Watson_?"

Holmes promptly 'escorted' him out.

**

* * *

**

Mr. Holmes was a stubborn, ignorant fool. I had come to the conclusion only minutes after bursting into my apartment and now, there was very little on my mind. My fingers ran over the parchment over and over again till it was nearly ripping at the edges but nothing would calm my temper, one that shouldn't have been caused in the first place.

I should have beat him over the head with my cane because damn the rules of being etiquette! The detective deserved it for hiding such things from others, but most of all, _me_. And it hurt for some bizarre reason because it should not have mattered. Not in the smallest of ways.

I did not even consider the man to be a friend—I just respected him, that's all.

Unfolding the letter to read it once more, my eyes scanned it furiously to try to see if I had missed anything.

It was all there and I threw the parchment to the floor. He was going to get himself killed. But I silently prayed that it was I who was going to do it. Getting down to my knees hurt but my arms outstretched to reach for my suitcase beneath my bed. I lifted the clothes to reach the bottom after unclasping the case and there, still in perfect condition was my brother's revolver. Checking my pocket watch with trembling fingers, the time clearly signaled that it was over nine hours till eleven.

I could only sit down and wait.

**A/N: I can't even fathom how much you all must brutally want to kill me right now. That after nine months I finally get the muse to write for this story again? That I have left so many of you wondering what is going to happen and some of you have already left this story in disappointment of waiting. The numerous messages I have been receiving were mostly heart-shatter as long with all the supportive comments. To believe that I inspired some of you to write was just...unimaginable. Others were pushing me into updating and I thank those people as well. This story does mean alot to me even though I've done nothing to show it. Things changed though and I lost inspiration, giving up so many times. This chapter itself has been redone over seventeen times, each more stupid than the rest. I apologize for this chapter's length but I'll have you all know that another one is coming very soon. **

**It is because of all of you that I have regained my inspirtaion. **

**I'm only sorry that it took my nine months to figure that out. **


	9. Mistakes & Curiosity

I knew better then to expect a happy reaction if I were to be caught by Mr. Holmes. I was fully prepared to deal with his wrath – Lestrade and the rest of the Yard claimed it was horrible – but I hoped he was ready to do the same for me.

My fingers were still clenching and unclenching around my cane as the cab made its way down the cobblestone roads. The parchment was crammed in the safety of my trouser's pockets – courtesy of Amadora whom allowed me to borrow the male costume again. My brother's gun was tucked away in the inside vest fold; it felt cold despite the cloth separating it from my skin. And unlike the last time I had dressed up like a man and been caught so blindly by the detective, I had a larger cap to hide any sign of my hair and replaced my regular walking stick with a wooden one. The boots hopefully covered the weight issue and I kept in mind to emphasize every step.

Out of nervousness I removed the parchment I'd taken from Mr. Holmes' floor and re-read it again and again.

_Let us meet at a quarter before the new day, Detective. _

_The fishing warehouse by the docks; red walls. _

_Bring your little female doctor along too. _

_A warning though, one I hope you both will take into consideration: alert the police and you'll find two victims instead of one. _

_But you are a smart man, aren't you? _

There was a signature scrawled across the bottom of it, ink splattered at the corners but they were initials, not the full name. It looked like two 'J' but I couldn't be sure with the poor penmanship. I was certain I was going to find out later that evening anyways. Yet the closer I got to my destination, the more foolish I felt.

What exactly was I planning to do when I found Mr. Holmes? Hit him with my cane till he let me tag along with him instead of keeping me in the dark? Our relationship wasn't nearly as steady enough to trust me for things like that. I'm sure he only saw me as a nuisance. He and the rest of London. Being bitter wouldn't help me now though so I quickly strangled that thought and moved on to the more important one. I wasn't _here _to be acknowledged, or to prove myself to this man or _any_ man. I was here for one sole reason whether I chose to say it aloud or not:

To keep Mr. Holmes from getting himself killed.

I may find him infuriating and the worst gentleman in all of England (keep in mind I had dealt with _soldiers_), but I couldn't just sit around knowing he was going to be meeting with a murderer. Unprotected. Without backup. Absolutely nothing. For all he knew, the unknown culprit could've brought a small pack to trap the detective instead of actually meeting with him. I knew he'd be coming … maybe I didn't know Mr. Holmes all that well but he seemed to be in a rush to get me out of the house earlier that evening and he didn't seem like the type of man to disregard meeting up with a criminal. Alone. The pistol felt heavier and the stop of the cab had me gripping the cane again.

I paid the driver with a quick nod, afraid my voice would give away my cover. He didn't seem to notice though and just whipped the reins, the horses trotting away till he was far from sight. I waited till he was fully gone before taking strides towards the murky water that would lead me to the ranking-fish scents. I kept farther away from the lamps with my head down, tapping my cane against the stone to ensure it wasn't wet. Slipping would be one of the stupider things I could do. It was preparing myself to confront Mr. Holmes that mattered now.

Finding the warehouse hadn't been difficult about twenty minutes later but I couldn't stop my heart from pounding when I saw the chipped red walls from the distance. The stench of the rotting fish had been as strong as I'd been expecting but I had no free hand to cover my nose while one was holding the cane and the other my revolver. I shook my head to stop the sensitivity. I was a war doctor and I had seen and experienced what most women faint at _hearing_. I had smelled rotting _flesh_ – I refused to go soft when I'd only been away from that place for so little time. And just like that, the nausea from the scent swept away and I took a deep breath. I couldn't afford to be distracted now.

I checked, hidden from view, for anyone walking around the building before going towards it as quickly and quietly as I could. I spotted a group of less-than-friendly men approaching from the corner, still not noticing my attendance to my supreme relief. I ducked down to hide behind a pile of crates, reprehensibly unlocking the safety to my revolver. I had been a fool, _a fool damn it all. _

The fear-induced hysterical thought that men's clothing were extremely comfortable suddenly bubbled up and I had to place my fist to my lips to stop myself from laughing _or _coughing.

My mother always said I had such a wild imagination.

And I could not see Mr. Holmes anywhere.

**Holmes: **

I'd been all too happy when I was left in pure silence. Unfortunately, that left me to my unwanted thoughts.

Women are too soft; they usually stirred up trouble more than they ever did good. If asked, perhaps the only woman I had come to respect besides Mrs. Hudson (who even then …) had been Irene Adler whom I met a few years back. I thought I had made it clear that I did not mix with the opposite gender, let alone people in general. My cases were my life, my wife, and whatever sentimental thing that could be put to mind.

And now Miss Watson was fluttering in between me and my usual routine.

The nerve of that .. that _female_ … it was _maddening_. Did she not understand when I made it clear I wanted her out of the case? Her professional help had been kind and yes, I had consented to most of them, but she seemed willing to go through with all of it. Even the dangerous parts that I didn't even bring Lestrade along with. Of course the murderer would have taken notice of her and stupidly thought we had a relationship of some sort. I had the most amusing idea of watching him be beat to death by her cane but promptly let it die. Miss Watson would have no connection to the case as long as she was being near me. Too dangerous.

I thought I had been making the right decision when I received the note and completely failed to tell the Doctor about it. It wasn't as if I was planning to meet the criminal in such a secluded place. Suicide and clearly a distraction while he went off to take his next two victims. While he thought I'd be going to the docks, I'd really be going back to the lake to be ready for the criminal.

There was only the issue of Miss Watson following me.

I had left a fake note on the top of my desk, knowing that her curiosity would get the best of her. In the note, I had carefully scrawled in my sloppiest writing (pretending to be the criminal) that they were expected to meet him at the restaurant directly a block away from her home. When she left my flat in a hurry, I had to stop myself from breathing in relief that she'd taken the bait. It was one less thing to worry about.

I imagined Miss Watson would have probably been thrilled to tag along if I went to face him. My eyes shut in frustration with the mental image. I didn't think I could handle being around her for much longer without sprouting more gray hairs and playing my poor violin to a splinter. Worse yet, I found myself not _entirely_ bothered by her company … despite the hell that comes with it. And she looked ill the last time she'd left …

Blast it all.

It was almost eleven and I was slipping my coat on, pushing papers out of the way to find the parchment the murderer had left me. I was certain it was somewhere in the mountains of research, it hadn't been too long since I'd discarded the older papers. My brows furrowed deeper with every book and sheet I threw over my shoulders, eyes flickering wildly across the mess. I had been in the room all day. It _had_ to be close.

The gnawing answer was already making my motions more panicked.

I had already memorized the contents of the note as soon as my Irregulars had dropped it off but there was still more information that could be drawn from it. Much more. I'd completely forgotten about it after Lestrade had left and in that moment of confusion, forgotten to tell Miss Watson what I'd been meaning to. She'd been so distracted looking at the floor … the floors! "Mrs. Hudson," I bellowed. "Mrs. Hudson!" It was late at night but the good lady knew my tone of voice when she heard it – the lights below had already flickered on.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes," she called tiredly from the bottom of the stairs.

"Did you touch any of my papers?"

"I tidied up earlier, yes! Why?"

Rarely did the blood ever drain from my face so quickly.

I bent down, my hands pushing and now kicking my stashes to the side and I could feel my anger boiling when the reasoning filtered through the haze. There, placed neatly on top of one of the textbooks, was the fake not. _She hadn't … _I took everything back. I was going to ensure Miss Watson never followed me on another case again. Ever.

I dashed down the stairs, two steps at a time, and made haste out the doors into the streets. I didn't waste any time in catching a cab but allowed my adrenaline to mix with the rage of my own stupidity for noticing earlier. Careless!

I just hoped by the time I found Miss Watson, she was not the newest victim.

And so help me God, the scathing rant she'd get from me for her damn curiosity!


End file.
